GIFT  OF 
A,    F.    ^orrison 


A 


lTHE   POETICAL 
WORKS  OF  WILLIAM 


NEW  YORK  AND  BOSTON 
THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  AND 
COMPANY 


.    .     .       ,     . 
•    •     •    ••     •       * 

.      .... 

••••••* 


•  •  •     •• 


... 


.. 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


COMPLETE    EDITION. 


WITH  MEMOIR,  EXPLANATORY  NOTES,  ETC 


NEW   YORK* 
THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL  &   CO. 


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PREFATORY   MEMOIR 

OP 

WILLIAM    COWPER. 


WILLIAM  COWPER,  the  son  the  Rev.  John  Cowper,  was  born  at 
Great  Berkhamstead  Rectory,  on  the  20th  of  November,  1731 .  His 
family  was  of  ancient  descent,  capable  of  being  traced  back  without 
interruption  to  the  time  of  Kdward  IV.  mi  his  father's  side.  His 
mother,  Ana,  daughter  of  Roger  Donne,  of  Ludlmm  Hall,  Norfolk, 
was  of  the  family  of  the  celebrated  and  excellent  Dr.  Donne,  Dean 
of  St.  Paul's,  and  was  said  to  be  descended  from  King  Henry  III. 
through  four  different  lines. 

When  Cowper  was  only  six  years  old  the  great  misfortune  of 
his  life  befell  him  ;  his  mother  died.  What  that  loss  was  to  the 
tender  sensitive  child  we  can  best  judge  by  his  own  exquisite  lines 
addressed  to  her  picture,  which  he  received  from  his  cousin,  Ann 
Bodliam,  more  than  fifty  years  afterwards.  She  left  also  a  newly 
born  child,  his  brother  John,  who  survived  to  manhood  ;  five 
other  children  had  died  in  their  infancy. 

In  less  than  a  year  after  his  mother's  death,  Cowper  was  sent 
to  school  ataD/.  Pitman's,  Market  Street,  between  St.  Albans  and 
Dunstable.  Here  he  suffered  for  two  years  from  the  most  cruel  bully- 
ing on  the  part  of  the  elder  boys  ;  his  shyness,  physical  delicacy,  and 
sensitive  nature  exposing  him  in  a  peculiar  manner  to  their  savage 
tormenting.  Of  one  of  these  young  tyrants,  Cowper  writes  :- 

"  I  bad  such  a  dread  of  him,  that  I  did  not  dare  lift  my  eyes  t<, 
his  face.  I  knew  him  best  by  his  shoe- buckle."  But  the  cruelty 
exercised  by  this  young  savage  was  at  length  discovered,  the  cowaid 
was  expelled,  and  Cowper  was  taken  from  the  school. 

The  next  two  years  he  spent  under  the  care  of  an  oculist,  who 
attended  him  for  inflammation  of  the  eyes.  From  this  home  he 
was  removed  to  Westminster  School.  Here  his  dull  and  suffering 
young-  life  brightened.  He  was  an  excellent  scholar,  and  became 
also  a  good  cricketer  and  football  player.  The  usher  of  his  form 
was  Vincent  Bourne,  celebrated  for  his  Latin  poetry,  which  his 


M103528 


MEMOIK  OF 


pupil  afterwards  translated.'  His  chief  school  friends  were,  Robert 
Lloyd,  tb<^  son  of  Dr.  Piefso-a  ,Lloyd,  another  usher;  William 
Rus&eli,  Warren  Hastings,  (ieor^e  Colman,  Charles  Churchill  and 
Cumberland.  To  these  h'e  was  sincerely  and  faithfully  attached  ; 
proofs  of  his  friendship  for  them  are  scattered  through  his  poems. 
While  still  a  Westminster  scholar,  he  wrote  his  first  poem,  in  im- 
itation of  Philips'  "  Splendid  Shilling  "  (see  p.  25).  In  the  same  year 
-1748 — he  left  Westminster  and  remained  under  his  father's  roof 
for  nine  months.  He  was  then  articled  for  three  years  to  a  solicitor 
— a  Mr.  Chapman,  of  Ely  Place,  Holborn.  It  was  settled  that 
while  he  was  there  he  should  visit  every  Sunday  an  uncle  of  his- 
Mr.  Ashley  Cowper,  afterwards  clerk  of  the  Parliament,  who 
resided  in  Southampton  Row.  His  fellow-clerk  at  Mr.  Chapman's 
-Edward  Thurlow — destined  to  become  hereafter  (as  Cowper 
of  ten  jestingly  prophesied)  Lord  Chancellor — shared  this  privilege 
with  him,  and  not  only  Sundays  but  much  of  the  two  lads'  time 
was  spent  at  Mr.  Ashley  Cowper's,  whose  house  was  the  more  at- 
tractive probably  from  the  fact  that  he  had  three  daughters,  two 
of  whom,  Harriet  and  Theodora,  were  growing  into  womanhood. 
With  the  latter  Cowper  fell  deeply  in  love,  and  it  was  to  her, 
under  the  name  of  "  Delia,"  that  his  early  poems  are  addressed. 
Harriet  became  engaged  to  and  finally  married  Mr.  Hesketh,  who 
was  afterwards  created  a  baronet. 

When  his  three  years  with  the  solicitor  expired,  Cowper  en- 
tered into  residence  at  the  Middle  Temple,  1752,  and  here  the  first 
shadow  of  that  awful  melancholy  which  clouded  all  his  future 
life  stole  over  him.  He  became  painfully  depressed.  "I  was 
struck,"  he  says,  "  with  such  a  dejection  of  spirits,  as  none  but 
they  who  have  felt  the  same  can  have  the  least  conception  of. 
Day  and  night  I  was  upon  the  rack,  lying  down  in  horror  and 
rising  up  in  despair." 

He  sought  relief  in  medicine  and  religion,  and  found  some 
comfort  in  George  Herbert's  works,  "  but  a  very  near  and  dear 
relation,"  he  tells  us,  disapproved  of  that  excellent  divine's  teach- 
ings, and  Herbert — so  well  suited  to  his  reader  ! — was  unhappily 
laid  aside.  Mr.  Hesketh,  Harriet's  lover,  then  took  him  to  South- 
ampton for  change  of  air  and  scene,  and  this  appears  to  have 
done  him  good.  In  1754  he  returned  to  London  and  was  called 
to  the  bar. 

It  does  not  appear  that  he  ever  had,  or  desired  to  have,  a  brief. 
He  hoped  for  an  appointment  to  one  of  the  patent  offices  in  con- 
nection with  the  House  of  Lords,  the  nomination  to  which  was 
vested  in  a  member  of  his  father's  family.  Meantime  he  wooed 
and  won  his  cousin,  Theodora  Jane  Cowper,  who  was  willing  to 
run  all  risks,  and  even  share  poverty  with  him.  "If  you  marry 
William  Cowper,"  said  her  father,  alluding  to  his  nephew's  pov- 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


erty  one  day,  "  what  will  you  do  ?  '      "  Do,  sir  ? '    answered  Theo- 
dora,  "  wash  all  day,  and  ride  out  on  the  great  dog  at  night." 

Probably  Mr.  Ashley  Cowper's  hesitation  as  to  permitting  the 
match  became  a  decided  objection  on  account  of  the  sad  despond- 
ency and  restlessness  of  his  nephew.    He  declared  firmly  that  the 
marriage  must  not  take  place,  assigning  as  an  excuse  his  dislike  to 
cousins  marrying.     No  one,  looking  at  the  future  which  followed, 
ran     avoid  allowing   that    Mr.  Cowper   acted   wisely  ;    Cowper's 
madness,  and  th:>  eccentricity  afterwards  developed  by  Theodora 
prove  that  his  derision  was  both  wise  and  kind.     Just  about  this 
time  Cowper  was  summoned  to  Berkhamstead  to  the  death-bed  of 
his  father,  who  died  of  apoplexy  soon  after  his  son  arrived,     lie 
had  married  a  second  time,  and   Cowper  had  been  very  little  at 
home  since  that  event  occurred,  but  he  loved   the  place  full  of 
boyish  memories,  and  no  doubt  grief  for  his  father's  death,  and 
the  loss  of  his  old  home,  bitterly  aggravated  the  sorrow  of  his  dis- 
appointed affection. 

Dr.  Cowper  did  not  leave  much  money  to  his  sons.  The 
younger,  John,  was  then  studying  at  Cambridge  for  holy  orders  ; 
and  Cowper  returned  to  his  lonely  chambers,  feeling  all  the  more 
desolate  because  his  uncle  Ashley  had  removed  from  Southampton 
Row  to  Palace  Yard,  and  had  taken  that  opportunity  of  refusing  to 
permit  his  nephew  to  visit  at  his  house.  Thus  he  and  Theodora 
were  forever  separated  ;  she  submitted  dutifully  to  her  father's 
will,  but  remained  faithful  to  her  love,  watching  over  the  life  of 
her  cousin  with  tender  interest ;  helping  him  with  anonymous  gifts, 
and  refusing  ever  to  give  him  a  successor  in  her  affections.  She 
carefully  preserved  the  poems  he  had  addressed  to  her  ;  and  near 
the  close  of  her  life  deposited  them  in  a  sealed  packet  with  her 
dearest  lady  friend,  directing  that  the  contents  should  not  be  in- 
spected till  after  her  death.  Her  friend  and  herself  died  the  same 
year,  1824,  and  the  executors  of  the  former  sent  the  packet  to  Mr. 
James  Croft,  whose  relation,  Sir  Archer  Croft,  had  married  Theo- 
dora's youngest  sister.  He  published  from  this  collection  a  little 
volume  of  "  Early  Poeins,"  in  1825. 

The  afflictions  of  Cowper  "  fell  in  showers.'1  Next  to  Theodora 
he  loved  young  William  Russell,  who  had  since  their  school  days 
succeeded  to  his  hereditary  baronetage,  and  held  a  commission  in 
the  Guards.  Suddenly,  while  bathing  in  the  Thames,  that  poor 
young  man  was  drowned. 

Cowper's  spirits  sank  under  these  repeated  trials,  and  his  cousin 
Lady  Hesketh,  who  sometimes  saw  him,  tried  to  cheer  him  by 
playful  banter.  He  answered  her  in  lines  of  such  deep  pathos 
that  she  never  forgot  them,  but  years  afterwards,  when  they  had 
been  long  lost,  could  remember,  and  write  them  out.  Our  readers 
will  find  them  at  page  38,  under  the  heading  of  "Disappointment. 


j » 


8  PREFATORY  MEMOIR  OF 

As  we  have  said,  Dr.  Cowper  left  but  a  small  provision  for  his 
sons  ;  it  was  therefore  a  boon  to  Cowper  when  his  family  obtained 
for  him  the  post  of  a  Commissioner  of  Bankrupts,  which  gave  him  a 
yearly  income  of  60Z.  He  now  bought  chambers  in  the  Inner  Temple, 
and  renewed  his  Westminster  associations  by  joining  the  "  Nonsense 
Club,"  which  consisted  of  old  Westminsters.  The  president  of  it 
was  Bonnell  Thornton,  Hill  (who  induced  him  to*  join  it),  Lloyd, 
and  Colman.  The  latter  and  Thornton  edited  the  Connoisseur  to 
which  Cowper  soon  contributed. 

The  "Nonsense  Club"  met  and  dined  together  every  Thurs- 
day, and  doubtless  the  wit  and  kindly  fellowship  of  his  old  friends 
were  of  infinite  benefit  to  the  melancholy  young  man.  His  taste 
for  literature  was  awakened — a  taste  to  which  he  owed  much  relief 
and  consolation  in  his  future  years. 

He  contributed  five  articles  (which  are  known)  to  the  Connois- 
seur, amongst  them  is  one  on  Conversation — the  subject  afterwards 
of  one  of  his  best  poems.  He  produced  also  at  this  time  several 
halfpenny  ballads,  two  or  three  of  which  became  popular,  but  they 
have  been  lost,  to  our  great  regret.  He  contributed  to  the  St. 
James's  Chronicle  ;  joined  his  brother  in  translating  two  books  of 
Voltaire's  Henriade,  said  to  have  been  published  in  a  magazine  ; 
and  assisted  the  Duncombes  in  a  translation  of  Horace. 

But  these  literary  occupations  and  social  pleasures  were  about 
to  terminate  in  an  awful  affliction.  Pecuniary  difficulties  threat- 
ened the  briefless  barrister,  and  his  near  relative,  Major  Cowper, 
desirous  of  benefiting  him,  offered  him  two  vacant  offices  to  which 
he  had  the  right  of  presentation — those  of  Reading  Clerk  and  Clerk 
of  Committees  to  the  House  of  Lords.  The  office  of  Clerk  of  the 
Journals  of  the  House  of  Lords  was  also  vacant,  and  in  Majoi 
Cowper's  gift ;  but  as  it  was  less  lucrative  than  the  two  former,  lie 
designed  it  for  a  friend,  a  Mr.  Arnold,  and  offered  the  best  to  his 
cousin. 

At  first  Cowper  gladly  and  gratefully  accepted  the  kindness,  but 
almost  the  next  minute  repented.  Wild  fancies  seized  on  him,  that 
he  had  wished  for  the  death  of  the  former  holder,  and  was 
therefore  at  heart  a  murderer,  though  he — Mr.  De  Grey — had  re- 
signed and  was  not  dead  ;  he  had  also  a  conviction  that  he  could 
never  speak  or  act  in  public.  After  a  week's  hesitation  and  men- 
tal struggles  he  begged  Major  Cowper  to  give  the  two  lucrative 
offices  to  his  friend  Mr.  Arnold,  and  the  less  lucrative,  but  more 
private  one,  of  Clerk  of  the  Journals,  to  himseJf.  His  cousin,  with 
some  hesitation,  yielded  to  his  wishes.  But  a  new  difficulty  arose, 
a  strong  party  in  the  House  of  Lords  contested  the  right  of  Major 
Cowper  to  nominate.  Inquiry  and  discussion  followed,  and  the 
Clerk  of  the  Journals-elect  was  informed  that  he  must  prepare  for 
an  examination  at  the  bar  of  the  House  to  test  his  qualifications 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


for  the  office.  "A  thunderbolt,"  he  remarks,  "would  have  been 
as  welcome  to  me  as  this  intelligence." 

He  was  now  obliged  to  vHt  the  office  of  the  House  of  Lords  to 
learn  his  future  duties,  and  he  tried  for  more  than  half  a  year  to 
prepare  for  his  examination  ;  but  in  vain  !  In  the  autumn  of 
1703  a  visit  to  Margate  revived  his  sinking  spirits  fora  time,  but  as 
soon  as  he  returned  to  town  his  reason  failed.  Three  times  he 
attempted  suicide  ;  then,  sending  for  Major  Cowper,  he  told  him 
what  he  had  suffered,  arid  returned  him  his  deputation.  His  brother 
was  sent  for  and  came  to  him,  but  could  not  console  or  calm  him  ; 
his  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh,  visited  him,  but  he  would  neithei  look 
at  nor  speak  to  her.  A  visit  from  his  cousin,  Martin  Madan,  a 
ntrong  Calvinistic  preacher,  served  only  to  increase  the  agonies  of 
his  horror  and  despair.  He  wrote  the  terrible  lines 
"  Hatred  and  vengeance,  my  eternal  portion,"  * 

and  his  distressed  friends  at  length  judged  it  expedient  to  place  him 
in  a  lunatic  asylum,  to  which  he  was  removed  December,  1703. 
Tlie  asylum  was  at  St.  Albans,  the  proprietor  was  Dr.  Nathaniel 
('otton.  a  man  of  great  professional  skill,  moral  worth,  and  some 
literary  talent,  whose  "  Visions"  were  then  popular  poems. 

Under  the  care  of  Dr.  Cotton,  Cowper  slowly  recovered  his 
reason  ;  but  it  was  not  possible  (he  felt)  for  him  to  fulfil  any  longer 
(••niM-ieiitiuusly  his  duti  a  Commissioner  of  Bankrupts,  so  the 

office  was  resigned.  He  thus  lost  nearly  all  his  income,  but  his 
family  subscribed  to  make  him  an  annual  allowance. 

His  brother  was,  as  we  have  said,  a  Fellow  of  St.  Benet's  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  and  to  be  near  him  was  now  Cowper's  great  de- 
si  re.  No  place,  nearer  than  Huntingdon  could,  however,  be  found 
suited  to  him.  Thither  he  removed  in  1765,  attended  by  a  faithful 
lad  who  had  waited  on  and  watched  over  him  at  St.  Albans,  and 
who  having  formed  a  strong  attachment  to  the  poor  patient,  be- 
sought Dr.  Cotton  to  let  him  go  with  him.  Huntingdon  suited 
Cowper.  "  1  do  really  think,"  he  wrote,  "  it  the  most  agreeable 
neighborhood  I  ever  saw."  He  attended  the  daily  services  at  the 
church,  bathed  in  the  Ouse,  walked,  and  began  that  correspond- 
ence with  his  friends  which  has  given  him  a  high  place  in  litera- 
ture, independent  of  that  which  he  holds  as  a  poet.  For  thre« 
\onthshe  lived  happily  at  Huntingdon,  then  he  wearied  of  solitude, 
,iid  it  was  to  be  feared  that  he  would  have  suffered  from  a  re- 
newal of  his  malady  had  he  not  happily  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  Unwins,  the  family  of  a  clergyman  who  took  pupils  in  Hunt- 
ingdon. Mr.  Unwin  had  formerly  been  master  of  the  Hunt- 
ingdon Grammar  School,  but  had  in  1742  received  the  college 
living  of  Grimstone.  He  then  married  Mary  Cawthorne,  a  young, 
pretty,  arid  clever  woman,  daughter  of  a  draper  at  Ely.  She, 

"'  '  •       '  -  -  -  __  r> T,-, M • 

*  See  page  50. 


PREFA  TOR  Y  MEMOIR  OF 


however,  disliked  Grimstone ;  and  to  please  her  Mr.  Unwin  re- 
turned to  Huntingdon,  where  he  took  a  large  house  in  the  High 
Street,  and  prepared  pupils  for  Cambridge.  The  Unwins  had  two 
children,  a  son,  who  at  the  time  Cowper  met  him,  had  just  taken 
his  A.  B.  degree  at  Cambridge,  and  a  daughter  of  eighteen  years 
of  age.  Cowper's  constant  attendance  at  the  daily  services  in 
Huntingdon  Church  attracted  the  notice  of  young  William  Unwin, 
and  one  day,  after  morning  prayers,  perceiving  the  stranger 
taking  a  solitary  walk  under  some  trees,  he  approached  and 
addressed  him.  Cowper  returned  the  greeting  kindly,  and  was 
persuaded  by  his  new  acquaintance  to  visit  his  family,  with  whom 
the  poet  was  charmed.  The  acquaintance  grew  into  an  intimacy, 
and  finally  Cowper  persuaded  the  Unwins  to  let  him  board  with 
them.  This  arrangement  was  every  way  advantageous  to  him ; 
he  was  absurdly  ignorant  of  domestic  economy  and  good  manage- 
ment, and  had  spent  his  twelve  months'  whole  income  in  one 
quarter.  He  was  considerably  in  debt  also  to  Dr.  Cotton.  The 
Cowper  family  generously  came  to  his  assistance,  and  without 
consulting  him  agreed  to  subscribe  annually  for  his  support,  pay- 
ing the  money  for  his  use  into  the  hands  of  his  kind  and  thought- 
ful friend,  Hill.  At  the  same  time  they  remonstrated  with  him 
through  his  uncle  Ashley  on  his  imprudence  in  retaining  the  ser- 
vant lad  he  had  brought  from  St.  Albans,  and  also  a  destitute 
child,  the  offspring  of  profligate  parents,  which  he  had  adopted 
and  put  to  school ;  Cowper  refused  to  abandon  his  proteges,  how- 
ever, and  was  threatened  with  the  withdrawal  of  part  of  his  in-' 
come.  At  this  stage  of  the  correspondence  he  received  an  anony- 
mous letter,  it  is  believed,  from  Theodora,  telling  him  that  the 
writer  approved  of  his  conduct,  and  promised  that  if  any  part  of 
his  income  were  withdrawn  the  defect  should  be  supplied  "  by  a 
person  who  loved  him  tenderly." 

While  the  correspondence  on  this  subject  was  going  on,  his 
new  friends  also  manifested  great  generosity.  Mrs.  Unwin  as- 
sured him  that  if  the  threatened  reduction  were  made  he  should 
still  share  their  home,  and  enjoy  the  same  accommodation  for 
half  the  sum  previously  agreed  on  between  them.  Nothing,  how- 
ever, came  of  his  friends'  remonstrances  ;  they  did  not  withdraw 
their  assistance,  and  Cowper  spent  a  happy  year  and  a  half  with 
his  new  friends.  He  has  given  the  following  details  of  his  daily 
life  during  this  period  : — "  We  breakfast  commonly  between  eight 
and  nine  ;  till  eleven,  we  read  either  the  Scriptures,  or  the  sermons 
of  some  faithful  preacher  of  those  holy  mysteries  ;  at  eleven,  we 
attend  divine  service,  which  is  performed  here  twice  every  day ; 
and  from  twelve  to  three  we  separate,  and  amuse  ourselves  as  we 
please.  During  that  interval  I  either  read  in  my  own  apartment, 
or  walk  or  ride,  or  work  in  the  garden.  We  seldom  sit  an  hour 


WILLIAM  CO  WPER.  1 1 


after  dinner,  but,  if  the  weather  permits,  adjourn  to  the  garden, 
where,  with  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  son,  I  have  generally  the  pleasure 
of  religious  conversation  till  tea-time.  If  it  rains,  or  is  too  windy 
for  walking,  we  either  converse  within  doors,  or  sing  some  hymns 
of  Martin's  collection,  and  by  the  help  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  harpsi- 
chord make  up  a  tolerable  concert,  in  which  our  hearts,  I  hope, 
are  the  best  and  most  musical  performers.  After  tea,  we  sally 
forth  to  walk  in  good  earnest.  Mrs.  Unwin  is  a  good  walker,  and 
we  have  generally  travelled  about  four  miles  before  we  see  home 
again.  When  the  days  are  short  we  make  this  excursion  in  the 
former  part  of  the  day.  between  church-time  and  dinner.  At 
night,  we  read  and  converse  as  before  till  supper,  and  commonly 
finish  the  evening  either  with  hymns  or  a  sermon,  and  last  of  all 
the  family  are  called  to  prayers.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  such  a 
life  as  this  is  consistent  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness  ;  accordingly 
we  are  all  happy,  and  dwell  together  in  unity  as  brethren." 

During  this  period  young  Unwin  left  home  to  take  a  curacy,  and 
his  sister  married  the  Rev.   Matthew  Powley,  afterwards  Vicar  o 
Dewsbury.     A  more  serious  change   was  coming.     On    the  28tl 
of  June,  1767,  Mr.  Unwin   was    thrown  from  his  horse,  his   skul. 
was  fractured,  and  he  died  four  days  afterwards. 

Mr.  Unwin  had  expressed  a  wish  that  if  his  wife  survived  him, 
Cowper  might  still  dwell  with  her;  therefore  the  two  mourners 
resolved  not  to  separate,  arid  the  Uov.  John  Newton  Hiaving  just 
at  that  time  been  introduced  to  Mrs.  Unwin  by  Dr.  Conyers,  of 
Helmsley)  invited  them  to  reside  in  his  own  parish,  and  offered  to 
find  a  house  for  them.  In  consequence  they  removed  to  Olney  on 
the  14th  of  September,  1707,  but  as  their  own  house  was  not 
ready,  Newton  received  them  for  a  time  as  his  guests  at  the 
Vicarage. 

From  this  moment  Cowper  became  the  friend  and  assistant  of 
the  energetic  curate,  who  devoted  his  life  to  his  flock.  Olney  lies 
on  the  Ouse,  in  the  north  of  Buckinghamshire.  Owing  to  fre- 
quent overflowings  of  the  river,  the  place  was  cold,  damp,  and 
aguish.  The  people  were  wretchedly  poor,  subsisting  by  lace- 
making  and  straw  plaiting,  and  no  educated  person  resided  in 
the  town  except  Mr.  Newton,  the  curate.  No  place  less  favorable 
to  poor  Cowper's  health  of  mind  and  body  could  have  been  found, 
but  for  a  time  all  went  well.  Inspired  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
ardent  evangelical  clergyman,  he  visited,  read  arid  prayed  wi  h 
the  sick,  he  attended  prayer-meetings,  and  even  himself  conducted 
the  extempore  prayer — a  terrible  effort  for  so  shy  a  man.  His 
exercise  was  also  lost,  for  they  had  "  sermon,  or  lecture,  every 
evening  which  lasted  till  supper-time."  A  great  contrast  to  the 
peace  and  holy  repose  of  the  daily  life  whose  details  we  gave  on 
the  last  page. 


1 2  PREFA  TOR  Y  MEMOIR  OF 


This  great  religious  excitement  was  followed  by  its  inevitable 
reaction.  Melancholy  again  seized  on  Cowper,  as  his  desponding 
letters  prove,  and  a  real  grief  came  to  wound  his  affectionate 
heart  in  1770,  when  he  was  called  to  attend  the  death-bed  of  his 
beloved  brother  John,  who  died  at  Cambridge. 

In  1771,  Cowper,  at  Mr.  Newton's  suggestion,  began  the  Olney 
Hymns,  but  before  the  composition  had  advanced  far  he  became 
a  second  time  insane. 

"I  was  suddenly  reduced,"  he  remarked,  writing  in  1786, 
' '  from  my  wonted  rate  of  understanding  to  an  almost  childish 
imbecility.  I  did  not  lose  my  senses,  but  I  lost  the  power  to  exer- 
cise them.  I  could  return  a  rational  answer  even  to  a  difficult 
question,  but  a  question  was  necessary,  or  I  never  spoke  at  all. 
This  state  of  mind  was  accompanied,  as  I  suppose  it  to  be  in  most 
instances  of  the  kind,  with  misapprehension  of  things  and  persons, 
that  made  me  a  very  intractable  patient.  I  believed  that  every- 
body hated  me,  and  that  Mrs.  Unwin  hated  me  most  of  all ;  was 
convinced  that  all  my  food  was  poisoned,  together  with  ten  thou- 
sand megrims  of  the  same  stamp."  % 

This  affliction  was  the  more  terrible  because  he  was  at  that 
time  about  to  be  married  to  Mrs.  Unwin.*  This  fact,  long 
youbted,  is  now  well  known.  It  was  naturally  to  be  expected 
fchat  such  a  result  would  follow  the  closeness  of  their  intimacy, 
and  the  similarity  of  their  tastes  and  opinions.  Cowper's  madness 
took  a  most  painful  turn  with  regard  to  religion.  The  Calvinistic 
doctrine  of  the  need  of  "  assurance  of  salvation,"  was  a  peculiarly 
painful  and  dangerous  one  for  his  mind.  His  first  illness  had  been 
t>ne  full  of  despair  of  his  own  salvation  ;  the  same  terrible  impres- 
I'on  now  overwhelmed  him. 

He  believed  that  Grod  required  him  to  sacrifice  his  own  life,  and 
several  times  attempted  suicide.  He  refused  to  pray,  or  to  attend 
Divine  service,  nor  would  he  visit  the  rectory,  till  one  day  having 
been  induced  to  go  there,  he  refused  to  leave  it,  and  besought  New- 
ton with  tears  of  anguish  to  let  him  remain.  The  generous  curate 
consented,  though  the  expense  of  the  poor  lunatic's  living  fell 
heavily  on  him  ;  but  Newton  f  was  assisted  in  all  his  good  works 
by  one  of  the  most  liberal  and  benevolent  of  men,  Mr.  Thornton, 
who  had  long  allowed  him  200Z.  a  year  to  spend  in  Christian  hos- 
pitality, and  on  his  poor. .. 

*  Vide  Mr.  Bull's  memorials  of  Cowper,  in  "  John  Newton." 

t  The  Rev.  John  Newton  had  been  a  sailor— a  wild,  dissipated  one,  and  had  been 


afterwards  he  commanded  a  slave-ship  ;  then  he  became  a  tide-surveyor  at  Liverpool, 
where  he  became  acquainted  with  Whitefield  and  Wesley,  and  in  1764  he  entered  the 
Church,  being  ordained  to  the  curacy  of  Olney.  The  same  year  he  became  acquainted 
with  Thornton,  who  continued  his  staunch,  never-changing  friend,  perceiving 
much  good  there  was  in  him. 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  13 


Newton  treated  hi-  nnhapp}  ~t  with   tri-eat  affection,    and 

hailed  with  delight  tin-  lirst  smile  of  th"  melancholy  man. 

Then  he  proposed  that  (  'nwper  should  return  to  his  own  home, 
and  th"  patient  •  nl.-d. 

During  the  whole  period  of  his  derangement  Mrs.  Unwin  had 
manife-te.l  th"in«)ST  a!T"ctionate  devotion  to  him.  Her  watchful 
ran- had  preserved  him  from  self-destruction,  and  day  and  night 
she  had  waP-hed  over  him  till  he  went  to  Newton's.  Even  then 
her  tender  can-  was  continued  for  him.  and  on  his  return  to  her 
house  she  shared  her  small  income  with  him.  and  did  all  that  was 
po-sih|e  to  cheer  and  su-tain  him. 

<  .radually    he  grew    better  ;   occupied    himself    with    gardening 
,1  car]  and  amused  himself  with  petting  animals.      He 

d.  l)'-id--  \\\<  three  t'am.Mi-  hare-,  live  rabbit-,  two  guinea-pigs, 
two  d  magpie,  a  jay.  and  "ther  bird-. 

In    September.  Thornton  pn-  I  Newton  with  the 

living  of  St.  Mary  Wnolnoth.  and  the  friend-  were  separated; 
before  Newton  left  he  introduced  Cowper  to  a  Mr.  Bull,  an  Inde- 
pend«-nt  preacher,  who  resided  at  Newport  P  "II.  live  miles  from 

Oln 

And  n«  •     1>\  decrees  Cowper  resumed  hlsoorrespondfnce  and  be- 
gan occasionally  to  write  short  poems,      A  bout  this  time  his  cousin, 
Mr.  Mad. in.  chaplain  of   the    Lock  Hospital,   published  a  treatise 
iled  •'  Tiielyphlli  ,       1 1 ise  < »n  Marriage,"  rec« »m mending 

poly^ai;  --ert  in";  t  hat    it    was  sanctioned  by   (n.d  Himself 

in  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Covperand  Newton  w -re  both  greatly 
-hocked  by  tlii-  d»-\ •••lopiiHMit  of  Mr.  Madan's  views,  and  the 
former  wrote,  in  answer  to  it.  his  little  known,  arid  very  inferior 
poem.  Antit/irlj/jiJith'tru,  which  as  his  is  inserted  in  this  edition, 
but  is  quite  unworthy  of  a  place  with  his  generally  charming 
poems.  It  was  publi-hed  anonymously,  1781,  and  he  never  in- 
cluded it  in  his  w«>rk-  liim-elf. 

To  Mr-.  I'nwin  posterity  i-  obliged  for  suggesting  to  him  a 
worthier  theme,  and  ursine;  him  to  far  superior  endeavors.  She 
suggested  the  ••  1'r  s  of  Error,"  a  moral  satire,  and  Cowper  at 
once  began,  and  continued  it  enthusiastically.  Then  he  wrote 
"  Truth."  •'  Table  Talk."  and  "  Kxpo.-tulation,"  all  these  poems 
being  completed  in  three  months.  He  req nested  Newton  to  find 
him  a  publisher,  and  Newton  carried  theMSS.  to  John  Johnson,  his 
own  publisher,  who  accepted  them,  and  took  all  the  risk  ;  but  he 
suggested  that  the  book  would  require  to  be  larger,  and  Cowper, 
at  his  request,  wrote  two  more  poems,  "  Hope,"  and  "  Charity." 
While  the  work  was  in  the  press  he  wrote  **  Conversation,"  and 
"  Retirement."  He  requested  Newton  to  write  a  preface,  but  the 
publisher  refused  to  print  it,  as  too  serious  in  tone  ;  it  was,  how- 
ever, inserted  in  the  fifth  edition. 


14  PREFATORY  MEMOIR  OF 


When  the  volume  of  poems  had  issued  from  the  press,  Cowper 
sent  copies  to  his  former  old  friends  and  schoolfellows,  Lord 
Thurlow — now,  as  he  had  prophesied,  Lord  Chancellor — and  Col- 
man  ;  but  neither  of  them  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  the  gift, 
and  some  months  after  the  poet,  very  indignant  at  their  unkind 
neglect,  wrote  the  "  Valediction."  The  book  was  not  popular,  and 
did  not  sell  :  it  was  destined  to  wait  for  its  successor. 

A  new  acquaintance  came  to  brighten  Cowper's  life,  and  in- 
spire his  Muse  in  1781.  While  he  was  correcting  the  press  of  his 
first  volume  of  poems,  he  observed  from  his  windows  two  ladies 
shopping  at  Olney  in  the  heat  of  a  summer  afternoon.  With  one 
of  them  he  was  slightly  acquainted  ;  she  was  a  Mrs.  Jones,  the 
wife  of  a  clergyman  residing  at  Clifton  Reynes,  about  a  mile  from 
Olney  ;  but  the  lady  who  was  with  her  was  so  distinguished-look- 
ing, that  she  immediately  attracted  Cowper's  notice.  He  heard 
that  site  was  sister  to  Mrs.  Jones,  and  the  widow  of  a  baronet,  and 
he  requested  that  Mrs.  Unwin  would  ask  them  in  to  tea.  The 
hospitality  was  gladly  accepted — the  ladies  came,  and  though, 
afterwards,  the  poet  was  shy  and  reluctant  to  go  into  the  room 
where  they  were,  he  was  no  sooner  introduced  to  Lady  Austen, 
than  he  was  captivated  by  her  grace  and  wit,  and  from  this 
period  began  an  intimacy  to  which  we  owe  "  Johnnv  Grilpin.  "  and 
the  "  Task." 

One  day,  when  Cowper  was  suffering  from  one  of  his  fits  of 
depression,  his  charming  friend  told  him  the  story  of  "Johnny 
Gilpin,"  which  actually  kept  him  awake  at  night  with  convul- 
sions of  laughter,  and  which  he  the  next  morning  turned  into  a 
ballad.  It  was  sent  to  William  Unwin,  and  printed  soon  after  in 
the  Public  Advertiser.  Three  years  afterwards  Mr.  Sharp  saw  it, 
and  recommended  it  to  Henderson,  the  actor,  for  "  a  reading." 
He  perceived  its  capabilities — read  it,  and  enchanted  his  audience, 
amongst  whom  was  Mrs.  Siddons. 

Lady  Austen  then  entreated  Cowper  to  try  his  power  at 
writing  blank  verse,  and  gave  him  for  a  subject  the  "  Sofa"  on 
which  she  was  sitting.  He  accepted  the  suggestion,  and  began  his 
great  poem  ;  but  before  it  was  finished  his  friendship  with  Lady 
Austen  ended.  Once  before  there  had  been  coolness  and  estrange- 
ment, caused  by  some  dissension  between  the  ladies.  Now  the 
same  cause  led,  it  is  believed,  to  this  sad  result  for  Cowper — for 
the  friendship  of  this  brilliant  woman  had  been  a  source  of  mental 
health  to  him.  That  he  sacrificed  it  to  his  gratitude  to  Mrs. 
Unwin  for  her  former  devotion  we  can  have  little  doubt.  We 
should  have  been  glad  if  she  had  nobly  forgotten  self  in  this  in- 
stance, and  sought  only  the  good  of  her  friend.  Hay  ley  gives  the 
following  account  of  this  circumstance  :- 

"  Cowper  perceived  the  painful  necessity  of  sacrificing  a  great 


WILLIAM  COWPER.  15 

portion  of  his  present  gratifications.  He  felt  that  he  must  re- 
linquish that  ancient  friend,  whom  he  regarded  as  a  venerable 
parent ;  or  the  new  associate,  who  he  idolized  as  a  sister,  of  a  heart 
and  mind  peculiarly  congenial  to  his  own.  His  gratitude  for 
past  services  of  unexampled  magnitude  and  weight  would  not 
allow  him  to  hesitate;  with  a  resolution  and  delicacy,  that  do 
the  highest  honor  to  his  feelings,  he  wrote  a  farewell  letter  to 
Lady  Austen,  explaining  and  lamenting  the  circumstances  that 
forced  him  to  renounce  the  society  of  a  friend,  whose  enchanting 
talents  and  kindness  had  proved  so  agreeably  instrumental  to  the 
revival  of  his  spirits,  and  to  the  exercise  of  his  fancy. 

"  In  those  very  interesting  conferences  with  which  I  was 
honored  by  Lady  Austen,  I  was  irresistibly  led  to  express  an  anx- 
ious desire  for  the  sight  of  a  letter  written  by  Cowper  in  a  situa- 
tion that  must  have  called  forth  all  the  finest  powers  of  his 
eloquence  as  a  monitor  and  a  friend.  The  lady  confirmed  me  in 
my  opinion,  that  a  more  admirable  letter  could  not  be  written; 
and  had  it  existed  at  that  time,  I  am  persuaded,  from  her  noble 
frankiK •->  and  zeal  for  the  honor  of  the  departed  poet,  she  would 
have  given  me  a  copy  ;  but  she  ingenuously  centered  that  in  a 
moment  of  natural  mortification,  she  burnt  this  very  tender,  yet 
resolute  letter.  I  mention  the  circumstance,  because  a  literary 
correspondent,  whom  I  have  great  reason  to  esteem,  has  recently 
expressed  to  me  a  wish  (which  may  perhaps  be  general)  that  I 
could  introduce  into  this  compilation  the  letter  in  question.  Had 
it  been  confided  to  my  care.  !  am  persuaded  I  should  have  thought 
it  very  proper  for  publication,  as  it  displayed  both  the  tenderness 
and  the  magnanimity  of  Cowper;  nor  could  I  have  deemed  it  a 
want  of  delicacy  towards  the  memory  of  Lady  Austen  to  exhibit 
a  proof  that,  animated  by  the  warmest  admiration  of  the  great 
poet,  whose  fancy  she  could  so  successfully  call  forth,  she  was 
willing  to  devote  her  life  and  fortune  to  his  service  and  protection. 
The  sentiment  is  to  be  regarded  as  honorable  to  the  lady ;  it  is 
still  more  honorable  to  the  poet,  that  with  such  feelings  as  ren- 
dered him  perfectly  sensible  of  all  Lady  Austen's  fascinating 
powers,  he  could  return  her  tenderness  with  innocent  gallantry, 
and  yet  resolutely  preclude  himself  from  her  society,  when  he 
could  no  longer  enjoy  it  without  appearing  deficient  in  gratitude 
towards  the  compassionate  and  generous  guardian  of  his  seques- 
tered life."  Lady  Austen  afterwards  married  a  Frenchman,  M. 
de  Tardieu. 

About  the  time  of  Cowper's  separation  from  Lady  Austen 
he  made  the  aquaintance  of  the  Throckmortons,  a  family  resid- 
ing at  Wes ton-Underwood,  a  village  about  two  miles  from  Olney. 

The  "Task"  was  published  by  Johnson,  who,  in  spite  of  thi 
(allure  of  the  poet's  first  production,  recognized  and  believed  in 


1 6  PREFA  TOR  Y  MEMOIR  OF 


his  genius ;  but  as  it  was  again  insufficient  for  a  volume,  the  "  Tiro- 
cinium," "  John  Gllpin,"  and  an  Epistle  to  his  excellent  friend 
Hill,  were  added.  The  new  poems  were  published  June,  1785,  and 
the  author  was  at  once  acknowledged  as  the  first  poet  of  the  age. 
It  was  the  already  famous  "John  Grilpin'?  at  first  which  attracted 
readers ;  then  the  excellence  of  the  serious  poems  confirmed 
their  admiration  of  the  comic  writer.  The  book  rapidly  passed 
into  a  second  edition,  and  next  year  the  two  volumes  were  published 
together. 

His  success  as  a  poet  revived  his  relations  with  his  family,  who 
had  been  for  some  time  estranged  from  him  ;  and  Cowper  was  in 
wild  delight  when  at  last  he  received  a  letter  from  Lady  Hesketh 
—  the  first  received  for  nineteen  years  !  His  friends  -  -  his  old 
schoolfellows — all  were  won  back  by  his  genius  ;  those  who  had 
shrunk  from  the  (supposed)  gloomy  fanatic  returned  ardently  to 
the  Christian  poet. 

He  rejoiced  in  this  new  sunshine  of  life,  and  frankly  accepted 
their  kindnesses  and  their  renewed  affection.  He  received  at  this 
period  an  anonymous  letter,  advising  him  not  to  overwork  himself, 
and  announcing  the  intention  of  sending  him  50Z.  a  year. 

There  is  no  doubt  it  came  from  his  faithful  cousin  Theodora. 
He  probably  knew  it  did,  as  he  told  his  cousin  Harriet  (Lady 
Hesketh)  that  he  would  not  seek  to  penetrate  the  secret.  He 
thus  speaks  of  his  relatives'  kindness  in  a  letter  to  Unwin,  dated 
July  10,  1786  :— 

"  Within  this  twelvemomth  my  income  has  received  an  addition 
of  a  clear  100£.  per  annum.  For  a  considerable  part  of  it  I  am  in- 
debted to  my  dear  cousin  (Lady  Hesketh)  now  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Orchard.  At  Florence  she  obtained  me  2QL  a  year  from  Lord 
Cowper ;  since  he  came  home  she  has  recommended  ine  with  such 
good  effect  to  his  notice  that  he  has  added  twenty  more  ;  twe  ty  she 
has  added  herself,  and  ten  she  has  procured  me  from  the  William 
of  my  name  whom  you  saw  at  Hertingfordbury.  From  my  anony- 
mous friend  who  insists  on  not  being  known  or  guessed  at,  and 
never  shall  by  me,  I  have  an  annuity  of  50Z.  All  these  sums  have 
accrued  within  this  year,  except  the  first,  making  together,  as  you 
perceive,  an  exact  century  of  pounds  annually  poured  into  the 
replenished  purse  of  your  once  poor  poet  of  Olney." 

He  began  now  to  find  Olney  dull,  and  urged  by  Lady  Hesketh, 
left  it,  and  proceeded  to  a  house  at  Weston-Underwood  belonging 
to  Mr.  Throckmorton.  A  fortnight  after  they  had  entered  their 
new  residence  a  terrible  grief  once  more  broke  in  on  the  returning 
happiness  of  the  poet.  Poor  William  Unwin  died  of  typhus  fever. 
He  had  been  the  dearest  of  Cowper's  friends,  and  the  mother's  loss 
called  also  on  his  sympathy.  But  Mrs.  Unwin  bore  sorrow  calmly, 
and  Cowper  was  in  a  short  time  restored  to  composure,  and  labored 


WILLIAM  CO  WPER.  I  ^ 


at  his  task  of  translating  Homer,  which  he  had  begun  twelve 
months  before. 

Another  short  attack  of  insanity  in  which  he  again  attempted 
self-destruction  occurred,  but  he  recovered  in  about  the  space  of 
eight  months.  After  this  illness  he  made  a  singular  acknowledg- 
ment to  Newton  in  one  of  his  letters,  that  he  had  for  thirteen  years 
doubted  Newton's  identity,  a  fact  which  accounted  for  any  ap- 
parent coolness  to  his  former  friend. 

In  January,  1790,  a  relative  on  his  mother's  side  sought  out 
the  poet,  and  Cowper  warmly  welcomed  his  cousin  John  Johnson, 
to  whom  he  was  destined  to  owe  the  chief  comfort  of  his  last  days. 
This  young  man,  a  Cambridge  undergraduate,  was  the  grandson 
of  the  Rev.  Roger  Donne,  of  Catfield,  in  Norfolk,  Cowper' s  mother's 
brother. 

On  his  return  to  his  kindred  in  Norfolk,  John  Johnson  was  full 
of  his  love  and  admiration  for  Cowper  ;  and  on  tellin"  his  aunt, 
Mrs.  Hodham,  that  she  was  still  all'ertionately  remembered  by  her 
old  playfellow  and  cousin,  she  wrote  t<>  the  p.M-t  and  sent  him  the 
picture  of  his  mother,  whichinspired  the  beautiful  ele^-y  so  univer- 
sally popular. 

Cowper  had  just  previously  gained  a  new  friend  in  Mr.  Rose  ;  he 
also  be-an  a  correspondence  with  a  Mrs.  King,  ai.d  renewed  his 
old  acquaintance  with  Lord  Thurlow.  His  translation  of  Homer 
was  published  in  1791.  Johnson  gave  him  1000/.  for  it,  the  copy- 
right remaining  with  Cowper.  Ilis  publisher  next  invited  him  to 
undertake  an  edition  of  Milton,  to  match  Boydell's  Shakespeare. 
He  was  to  translate  Milton's  Latin  and  Italian  poems,  and  add 
notes.  Fuseli  was  to  illustrate  the  work.  But  this  task  proved 
very  painful  and  distasteful  to  him. 

In  1791  Mrs.  Unwin  \v-  /.ed  with  paralysis,  and  The  effect  on 
Cowper  of  her  illness,  and  lengthened  recovery  from  it,  was  very 
s;*d.  He  began  to  fancy  he  heard  voices  speaking  to  him  when  he 
woke  in  the  morning.  Mrs.  Unwin's  intellect,  weakened  by  her 
illness,  succumbed  to  the  same  delusion,  and  a  schoolmaster  at 
Olney,  Samuel  Teedon,  actually  undertook  to  explain  the  mean- 
ing of  the  imagined  sounds  to  Cowper.  This  man  gained  great 
influence  over  the  unhappy  poet,  who  paid  him  large  sums  of 
money  at  different  times.  From  this  period  the  life  of  Cowper  be- 
came clouded  and  hopeless.  Poor  Mrs.  Uri win,  weak  in  mind  and 
body,  had  grown  fretful  and  very  exacting,  lie  had  no  com- 
panion now  but  this  suffering,  imbecile  woman,  and  the  equally 
mad  or  knavish  schoolmaster,  Lady  Hesketh  being  at  Bath  for  her 
health.  When  she  returned  she  was  so  shocked  and  alarmed,  that 
she  wrote  at  once  for  Mr.  Hayley  (a  friend  whom  Cowper  had  lately 
made  in  consequence  of  their  being  both  employed — of  course  by 
different  publishers — on  an  edition  of  Milton),  begging  him  to  com« 


l8  PREFATORY  MEMOIR  OF  WILLIAM  COWPER. 

at  once  to  Olney.  He  complied.  They  induced  the  celebrated  Dr. 
Willis  to  see  Cowper,  but  he  could  do  nothing  for  the  now  restless 
madman. 

A  pension  of  300Z.  a  year  was  granted  to  the  poet  by  the  king, 
but  he  was  incapable  of  understanding  his  good  fortune.  Dr. 
Willis  had  suggested  change  of  air  and  scene,  and  clinging  to  this 
last  hope,  Mr.  Johnson  succeeded  in  persuading  him  to  go  (with 
Mrs.  Unwin)  to  North  Tuddenham,  then  to  Mundesley,  on  the 
soast,  and  finally  to  Dunham  Lodge,  near  Swaffham.  Here  Mrs, 
Unwin  died.  Cowper  was  taken  to  see  her.  He  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  sorrow  and  left  the  room,  but  became  quite  calm 
directly  afterwards,  and  suffered  Johnson  to  resume  the  reading 
which  had  lately  been  their  only  means  of  pleasing  him — that  of 
Miss  Burney's  novels. 

After  the  death  of  Mrs.  Unwin,  Cowper  had  glimpses  of  reason. 
In  March,  1799,  he  continued  his  revision  of  his  Homer,  wrote  the 
Latin  poem,  "  Montes  Glaciales,"  and  a  few  days  afterwards  "  The 
Castaway."  He  liked  being  read  to,  and  would  listen  to  his  own 
poems,  except  to  ''John  Grilpin,"  which  he  disliked. 

An  excellent  woman, Miss  Perowne,  had  in  a  degree  taken  Mrs. 
Un win's  former  place  beside  him,  and  assisted  the  loving  efforts  of 
his  kinsman  to  cheer  and  help  him.  But  care  and  love  were  alike 
in  vain. 

In  the  helpless  gloom  of  melancholy  madness  his  life  closed. 
He  died  April  25,  1800. 

"From  that  moment"  (of  his  death),  says  his  kinsman,  "  until 
the  coffin  was  closed,  the  expression  into  which  his  countenance 
had  settled  was  that  of  calmness  and  composure,  mingled,  as  it 
were,  with  a  holy  surprise." 

He  had  emphatically  "  entered  into  his  rest,"  and  was  at 
peace.  He  was  buried  in  Dereham  Church,  in  St.  Edmund's 
chapel.  Mrs.  Unwin  lies  in  the  south  aisle. 


*'- 


CONTENTS. 


EARLY  POEMS. 

PA 

Verses  written  at  Bath 25 

Of  Himself         L't; 

Poems  to  Delia  :— An  apology 27 

Apology  to  I  Mia 

The  Symptoms  of  Love 

An  Attempt  :n  the  Manner  of  Waller    •_".' 

Written  in  a  Quarrel i".' 

Reconciliation 

Appeal  to  Delia  for  Forgiveness 30 

To  Delia ::i 

Delia's  Ab~"nce 

Written   after   Leaving  her  at  New 

Burns     

On  h-  r  1  .ndeavo.ing  to  Conceal  her 

Griff  :it    Parting. 

Despair  at  hi.-  s.-i.aration  from  Delia 

U.  S.  S 

Written  in  a  tit  of  Illness 

To  Delia 

Disappointment 

Upon  a  Venerable  Rival 

An  Ode  on  Reading  "  Sir  Charles  Gran- 

disou  " 39 

In  a  Letter  to  C.  P..  Esq \" 

In  a  Letter  to  the  Same 40 

(Me,   supposed   to  be  Written   on    the 

Marriage  (.f  a   Friend 41 

An  Epistle  to  Robert  Lloyd,  Esq }•_' 

The  Certainty  of  Death..* 41 

A  Comparison 44 

The  S  ream 44 

A  Song 45 

Song 45 

A  Song 46 

Address  to  Miss  Macartney, afterwards 
Mrs.  Greville,  on  Reading  her 

"  Prayer  for  Indifference  " 46 

An  Ode . .' 48 

Lines  Written  During  a  Period  of  In- 
sanity    50 

Lines  Written  During  the  Author's  Sec- 
ond Period  of  Insanity 51 

On  Observing  Some  Names  of  Little 
Note  Recorded  in  the  Biographia 
Britannic* / 51 


OLNEY    HYMNS. 

PAOK 

Walking  with  God 69 

Jehovah- Jireh.    The   Lord    Will    Pro- 
vide   52 

Jehovah-Rophi.     1   am    the    Lord  that 

HealethThee 53 

.Ieh..vah-Nissi.     Tin-  Lord  my  Banner.  f>4 

Jehovah-Shalom,   The  Lord  send  JVaee  5."i 

Wisdom 5f» 

Vanity  of  the  World 56 

')  Lord.  1  will   1'iais.'  Thee 57 

The  Contrite  Heart 57 

The    Future  Peace  and  Glory   of  the 

<'hnreh 58 

Jehovah  oar  RighteoutneM 59 

Kphraim  Repenting  59 

The  Covenant 60 

lehovah-Shammah GO 

Praise  for  the  Fountain  Opened 61 

Che  Sower 

The  1 1  on -e  of  Prayer 62 

Lovest  Thou  Me  ? 63 

Contentment 64 

Ohl  Testament  (J.»pel 65 

Sardis i'.i; 

Prayer  for  Children 66 

Pleading  for  and  with  Youth 67 

Prayer  for  Children 68 

Jehovah  Jesus  68 

On  Opening  a  Place  for  Social  Prayer..  69 

Welcome  to  the  Table 70 

Jesus  Hasting  to  Suffer 70 

Exhortation  to  Prayer 71 

The  Light  and  Glory  of  the  Woi  d 71 

On  the  Death  of  a  Minister 72 

The  Shining  Light 72 

The  Waiting  Soul 73 

Seeking  the  Beloved 74 

Welcome  Cross 74 

Afflictions  Sanctified  by  the  Word  75 

Temptation 76 

Looking  upwards  in  a  Storm . .  76 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. . . .  77 

Peace  afteV  a  Storm 78 

Mourning  and  Longing 78 

Self- Acquaintance T9 


20 


CONTENTS. 


Prayer  for  Patience 


PAGE. 

80 


Submission 80v  T 

The  Happy  Change 81 

Retirement ' 82 

The  Hidden  Life 82 

Joy  and  Peace  in  Believing 

True  Pleasures 84 

The  Christian 84 

Lively  Hope  and  Gracious  Fear 85 

For  the  Poor 86 

My  Soul  Thirsteth  for  God 86 

Love  Constrained  to  Obedience 87 

The  Heart    Healed   and    changed   by 

Mercy 88 

Hatred'of  Sin 88 

The  New  Convert 89 

True  and  False  Comforts 89 

A  Living  and  a  Dead  Faith 90 

Abuse  of  the  Gospel 91 

The  Narrow  Way     91 

Dependence    92 

Not  of  Works 93 

Praise  for  Faith        93 

Grace  and  Providence 94 

I  will  Praise  the  Lord  at  all  Times 94 

Longing  to  be  with  Christ 95 

Light  Shining  out  of  Darkness  96 

Anti-Thelyphthora,  a  Tale  in  verse,  1781    97 
Love  Abused ;  the  Thought  suggested 

by  Thelypthora 102 

The  Progress  of  Error 102 

Truth 117 

Table  Talk 131 

Expostulation 149 

Hope 166 

Charity 184 

Conversation 200 

Retirement 

The  Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin. 


PAGE. 
The  Modern  Patriot. .  391 


^orm. 


301 


THE  TASK. 

Boolr-'l.— The  Sofa. ^ ,„ 247 

"      -II.— The  Time-piece 2(55 

"   -III.— The  Garden 284 

"      IV.— The  Winter  Evening 303 

11   -— V.— The  Winter  Morning  Walk  321 
»VI.— The  Winter  Walk  at  Noon.  342 


.Tirocinium  ;  or,  a  Review  of  Schools..  366 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 

4  Tale,  Founded  on  a  Fact,  which  hap- 
pened in  January,  1779 387 

rhe  Pineapple  and  the  Bee 388 

Vhe  Love  of  the  World  Reproved  ;  or, 
Hypocrisy  Detected 389 

On  the  Promotion  of  Edward  Thurlow, 
TCsq.,  *o  the  Lord  High  Chancellor- 
ship of  England 390 


The  Raven 39i 

The  Doves 39c 

On  the  Burning  of    Lord  Mansfield's 

Library 39{ 

On  the  Same ;-.& 

A  Riddle 39t 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton,  on  his  Return 

from  Ramsgate 39t 

On  a  Goldfinch,  Starved  to  Death  in 

his  Cage 39f  • 

Report  of  an  Adjudged  Case 391 

A  Card 398- 

On  the  High  Price  of  Fish 39£  • 

To  Mrs.  Newton,  on  receiving  a  Barrel 

of  Oysters 39£ 

Epigram 400 

To  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 40C 

A  Poetical  Epistle  to  Lady  Austen.  ...  401 

To  Lady  Austen 403 

Heroism 404 1 

The  Flatting  Mill 406 ; 

From  a  Letter  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton, 

Rector  of  St.  Mary  Woolnoth 406 

To  the  Rev.  William  Bull 407 

Friendship 408 

the  Colubriad 412 

a,  TTm-A .- -i 


^pifaphium  Alterum —   414 

•hi  |hft  Loss  of  tbe  Royal  George. 414 


wri\   inc. .  f  flippy  i    •••"    p'-Jfl'  ««    'i gc 

In  Submersionem  Navigii  Cui,  GeorgK* 

us  Regale  Nornen,  Inditum 415 

Ode  to  Peace 415. 

Song — On  Peace 41(5 

Song 41(5 

The  Distressed  Travellers;  or.  I  jtl  or 

in  Vain 417 

The  Rose 419 

The  Valediction 420 

To  the  Immortal  Memory  of  the  Hali- 
but   ' 422 

Pairing-time  A nticipated 423 

Human  Frailty 4k5 

Verses  supposed  to  have  been  Written 
by  Alexander  Selkirk,  during  his 
Solitary  Abode  en  the  Island  of  Juan 

Fernandez - .   425 

An  Epistle  to  Joseph  Hill 427 

The  Moralizer  Corrected. .^ii.... 428 

_Ode  to  Apollo .T-T!"!--**^. . .  429 

*The  Faithful  Bird 430 

Monumental    Inscription    to  William* 

Northcot \ 431 

Mutual  Forbearance  Necess'ary  to  the 

Happiness  of  the  Married  State  431 

Boadicea 432 

To  the  Rev.  W.  Cawthorne  Unwin 433 

To  the  Rev.  Mr.  Newton 434 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose 434 

Idem  Latine  Redditum 4.';5 

The  Winter  Nosegay 435 

The  Poet,  the  Oyster,  and  Sensitive 
Plant..... , 436 


CONTENTS. 


Epitaph  on  J  >r.  Johnson 
On  the  Author  of  Letters  on  Literature 
The  Shrubbery,  written  in  a  'lime  of 
Affliction  ............................  438 

The  Poplar  Field  .......................  439 

To  Miss  Creuze,  on  her  Birthday  ......  439 

t  iratitude  .............................  439 

Stanzas  subjoined  to  the  Yearly  Bill  of 
Mortality  of  the  1'arish  of  All  Saints, 
Northampton,  Anno  l>oinini  17*7..       414 
On  a  Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year 
178«  ..............................  424 


On  a  Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year 
17*!)  ............................. 

On  a  Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year 


On  a  Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year 


434 
444 

444 
On  a  Similar  Occasion,  for  the  Year 

17!W 414 

Lines  Composed  for  a  Memorial  of  Ash- 
ley Cowp  r,  K.-< i 

S   N.-W -Year's  Gift 

fa'lte.  ^ve^'o'H  ( 'oinplaint 

Pity  "for"  Poor  Africans 

'1  he  Morning  Dream 400 

Sweet    Meat    ha>  Sour  Sauce;  or  the 

Slave-trade  in  the  Dumps 451 

Kpigram 452 

I'lie    Yearly   Distress;  or  Tithing-time 

at  Stock,  iji  Essex 453 

Sonnet   addressed  to  Henry   Cowper, 

l.sq 4Q4 

Thi-  iiikir  ;p>j  [lie  Wfltrr  Uil v 

Motto  for  a  (ioek 

n  Mrs.  Montagu's  Feather  Hangings. 

U    Ihrt  _L)t»JLlh   of     Mir     '''»»••""'•  tn.n-t^'j 


Aii  Epistle  to  an  Afflicted  Protestant 

Lady  in  France         459 

The  Needless  Alarm 460 

Annus  Meniorabilis 

On  the  (Queen's  Visit  to  London..         ..  465 
On  the  Benefit  Received  by  His  Maj- 

from  Sea-bathing  in  the  Year  17M).. .'.  466 

The  Cock- light-  rland 466 

Hymn  for  the  use  of  the  Sunday  School 

at  Olney 468 

On  the  Receipt  of  a  Hamper 469 

On  a  Mischievous  Bull,  which  the  Own- 
er sold  at  the  Author's  Instance 469 

Verses  to  the   Memory   of  Dr.   Lloyd, 
spoken  at  the  Westminster  Election 

next  a  ft  er  his  Decease 470 

To  Mrs.  Throckmorton,  on  her  Beauti- 


PAGE. 

lar  Occasion  at  the  same  Place  in  the 
following  year 475 

To  Mrs.  King,  on  her  kind  Present  to 
the  Author,  a  Patchwork  Counter- 
pane of  her  own  making 475 

Stanzas  on  the  late  Indecent  Liberties 
taken  \\iih  the  Remains  of  Milton 476 

In  Memory   of   the  late   J.   Thornton, 

•1 47C> 

In  Seditionem  Horrendam 47S 

The  Judgment   of  the  1'oetS 

vYilPluv  ^L' 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  M.  II  logins,  of  Weston 
;i  Young  Lady  on  her  I'.irth- 

day 483 

Retired  Cat 

On  the  Neglect  of  Homei 486 

lie  NightiK;  486 

Lilies    written    in    an    Album    of    M 

;ty  Mir.  of  Hannah  Moie. 

Kpitaph  <MI  a  Free  but  Tame  Redbreast, 

a  Favorite  of  Miss  Sally  Hurdis 

<>n  a  Mistake  in  the  Translation  of  Ho- 
mer. .  .  4s7 

Lines  on  a  Late  Theft 

Sonnet  to  William  Wilbertorce,  L.sq...   488 
To  Dr.  Austen   of  Cecil  Street,  London  488 

I  0  Warren  H;i-  : 489 

Lines  add:  >  Dr.  I  >ai  H  in,  author 

of  "The  I'.otanic  Gaid.-n" 489 

Cat hai ina 490 

rlh.   >ec..ndPart ...    ..  491 

William  Hayley      451 
.iph  on   1  <  p.   a  Dog  belonging  to 

Lady  Throckmortoi 492 

SOIM  .eorge  Komney,  Esq.,  on  his 

Picture  of  me  in  Crayons 492 

Thanka  for  a  Gift  of  Pheasant! 496 

An  F.pitaph  on  a  l'oint<T  belonging  to 

Sir  -lohn  Thro.-kmoiton 493 

On  Receiving  Hayley's  Picture 494 

F.pitaph  on  Mr.  Chester,  of  chieheley  .  494 
To  my  Cousin.  Anne  Bodham,  on  receiv- 
ing from  her  a  Netwoik  Purse  made 

by  Herself 494 

To  "Mrs.  I'n win 495 

T«-  John  John.-  ].,  on  his  Present- 
ing me  with  an  Antique  Bust  of  Ho- 
mer  405 

Inscribed  on  the  Bust  of  Homer,  Pre- 
sented to  Cowper  by  Mr.  John  John- 
son, and  now  in  the  Wilderness  at 

Weston 498 

To  a  Young  Friend,  on  his  Arriving  at       * 
Cambridge  Wet  when   no  Rain  had 
fallen  there .  496 


ful  Transcript  of  Horace's  ode  "  Ad 

Lihrum  Siium  " 171     Inscription  fora  Hermitage  in  the  Au- 

j-UttJ'mmil'    of  tiiy  Mothor'n  Picture 


out  of  Norfolk,  thegiftof  my  Cousin, 
Ann  Bodham  J. 

Inscription  for  a  Stone  Erected  at  the 
Sowing  of  a  Grove  of  Oaks,  at  Chill- 
ington,  the  Seat  of  T.  GitTard,  Esq  ...  171 

Another,  for  a  Stone  Erected  on  aSimi- 


thor's  Garden 496 

Inscription  for  a  Moss  House  in  the 

Shrubbery  at  Weston 497 

Inscription  for  a  Garden  Shed,  built  in 

a  far  more  Expensive  Way  than  was 

Designed 491 

Epigram  on  the  Same  Circumstance- .  I9J 


22 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

On  Abbott's  Portrait  of  Him,  Addressed 

to  Hayley 497 

The  Four  Ages 498 

On  a  Plant  of  Virgin's  Bower.  Designed 

to  Cover  a  Garden  Seat 499 

To  William  Hayley,  Esq 499 

A  Tale,  Founded  on  Fact 500 

On   a  Spaniel  called  Beau  Killing  a 

Young  Bird  , 502 

Beau's  Reply    .  -   503 

To  the  Spanish  Admiral  Count  Gravi- 
na,  on  his  Translating  the  Author's 
Song  on  a  Rose  into  Italian  Verse... 

vToMjucjc 

On  Receiving  Heyne's  Virgil  from  Mr.' 

Hayley  ...   505 

Answer 506 

inscription  for  the  Tomb  of  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton.  .506 

Montes  Giaciales,  in  Oceano Germanico 

Natantes 506 

On  the  Ice  Islands  seen  floating  in  the 
/   German  Ocean 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Translation  of  Psalm  exxxvii 512 

Translation  of  Greek  Verses  : — 
The  Spartan  Mother,  by  Juhanus —  513 

On  the  Same,  by  Palladas 513 

An  Epitaph 513 

Another 514 

Another  514 

Another. 514 

On    Melanippus   and  his   Sister,  by 

Cal'  aiachus 514 

On  MiJtiades 514 

On  an  Infant 515 

On  Aretimias,  by  Heraclides 515 

On  a  Reed-pen 515 

To  Health .   515 

On  the  Astrologers 516 

On  an  Old  Woman 516 

On  Invalids  516 

On  Flatterers  516 

To  the  Swallow  — 516 

On  Late  Acquired  Wealth ...   516 

On  a  True  Friend 517 

On  a  Bath,  by  Plato. 517 

On  a  Fowler,  by  Isiodorus 517 

On  Niol>e  517 

On  a  Good  Man 517 

On  a  Miser 518 

Another 518 

Another       . ... 518 

On  Female  Inconstancy.    518 

On  the  Grasshopper , 519 

On  Hermocratia 519 

What  Wealth  cannot  Buy ...  520 

On  Pallas  Bathing,  from  a  Hymn  of 

Callimachus 520 

On  a  Flattering  Mirror,  to  Demos- 
thenes   521 


PAGE. 

On  a  Similar  Character 521 

On  an  Ugly  Fellow.-., 521 

On  a  Battered  Beauty 521 

On  a  Thief 521 

On  Pedigree,  from  Epicharmus 522 

On  Envy  . . . . , 522 

On  Immoderate  Grief,  by  Philemon  .  523 
On  the  Teaching  of  Cupid,  by  Mos- 

chus  ... 523 

The  Fifth  Satire  of  the  First  Book 

of  Horace 524 

The  Ninth  Satire  of  the  First  Book  of 

Horace ....  529 

Translations  from  Horace:— 

Lib.  L.Odeix  533 

Lib,  i..  Ode  xxxviii 533 

Another  Translation  of  the  same  Ode  534 
Lib.  ii.,  Ode  xvi 534 

Translations  from  Virgil: — 

/Eneid,  Book  via..  Line  18 535 

The  Salad 545 


Translations  from  Ovid:— 
Trist.  Lib.  v.,  Eleg.  xii  . 


c/io 
tT±O 


Complimentary  Pieces  addressed  to 
Milton;  — 

The  Neapolitan,  John  Baptist  Man- 
so,  Marquis  of  Villa,  to  the  Eng- 
lishman, John  Milton 550 

An  Epigram  addressed  to  the  Eng- 
lishman. John  Milton 551 

To  John  Milton 551 

An  Ode  addressed  to  the  illustrious 
Englishman,  Mr.  John  Milton 551 

To  Mr.  John  Milton,  of  London 553 


Translations  of  the  Latin  and  Italian 
Poems  of  Milton.— 

Elegy  1.— To  Charles  Diodati 

Elegy  II.— On  the  Death  of  the  Uni- 
versity Bedel  at  Cambridge. . .  

Elegy  111.— On  the  Death  of  the  Bish  - 
op  of  Winchester — 

Elegy  IV.  —  To  his  Tutor,  Thomas 
Young 

Elegy  V. — On  the  Approach  ot  Spring 

Elegy  VI.— To  Charles  Diodati 

Elegy  VII 


554 
557 
558 

551) 

,SC,'2 
.rsp,r> 
508 


Epigrams:  — 

On  the  Invention  of  Guns l>1\ 

To  Leonora,  singing  at  Rome .  571 

To  the  Same 571 

The  Cottager  and  his  Landlord 572 

To  Christina, Queen  of  Sweden  .  .  ..572 
On  the  Death  of  the  Vice-Chancellor  572 
On  the  Death  of  the  Bishop  of  Ely.. .  574 

Nature  Unimpaired  by  Time 576 

On  the  Platonic  Idea  as  it  was  un- 
derstood by  Aristotle 578 

To  his  Father. 579 


CONTEXTS 


PAGE. 

iro  Salnllus,  a  Roman  Poet,  much  in- 
disposed   682 

To  Giovanni  I!at;i>ia  Man-.).  Marquis 
of  Villa  583 

On  the  Death  of  Damon 586 

An  Ode  Addressed  to  Mr.  Rous.  I.i 
brarian  of   tin-    I'mversity  of  Ox- 
ford    593 

Translations  of  tho  Italian  Poems  : — 

Sonnet  -    596 

Sonnet     596 

<  'MM/.one. 597 

Sonnet,  to  Charles  Diodati 

Sonnet WW 

Soi  net  698 

Translation   of  a  Simile  in   Paradise 

Lost  598 

Translation  of  Dryden's  Epigram  on 
Milton 599 

Translations  from  Vincent  Bourne  - 

The  Tlirarian 

Reciprocal  Kindness  the  Primary  law 

of  Nature 

A  Manual ,  more  Ancient  than  the  Art 
of  Printing,  and  not  to  be  found  in 

any  Catalogue  600 

An  Enigma 601 

Sparrows  Self-domesticated  in  Trini- 
ty College,  Cambridge  C02 

Familiarity  Dangerous 60'J 

Invitation'to  the  Redbreast   603 

Strada's  Nightingale 604 

Ode  on   the   Death  of  a    Lady,  who 
lived  One  Hundred  Years,  ami  Died 

on  her  Birthday 604 

The  Cause  Won 605 

The  Silkworm 605 

The  Innocent  Thiet   606 

Denver's  Old  Woman  607 

The  Tears  of  a  Painter  607 

The  Max.-    608 

No  Sorrow  Peculiar  to  the  Sufferer..  608 

Tlie  Snail    609 

The  Cantab 610 

E  pi  pram  s  Translated  from  the  Latin  of 

<  >\ven :  — 
Oft  Oil e  Ignorant  and  Arrogant  ...      610 

Prudent  Simplicity 610 

To  a  Friend  it-  Distress 610 

Self- Knowledge OlO 

Retaliation 611 

Sunset  and  Sunrise  611 

On  the  Shortness  of    Human   Life, 


PAOK, 

translated  from  the  Latin  of  Dr. 
Jortin 611 


Translations  from  the  French  of  Mad- 
aim;  l)e  la  Motie  (iiiyoii:  — 

The  Nativity 

God  Neither  Known  nor  Loved  by  the 
World  

The  Swallow 

The  Triumph  of  Heavenly  Love  De- 
sired   

A  Figurative  I  >•  >•  upturn  of  the  Pro- 
cedure of  Divine  Love 

Truth  and  Divine  Love  Rejected  by 
the  World 

Divine  Justice  Amiable    

The  Soul  that  Loves  <;<>d  finds  Him 
Kvery  where 

A  Child  of  God  longing  to  see  Him 
Beloved 

Aspiration  of  the  Soul  after  <  J«»d.    . . 
•.  ude  and  Lovo  to  <iod 

Happy  Solitude— Uuhappj  Men 

Lmng  Wi  

The  Testimony  of  Divine  Adoption.. 

Divine  Love  iMidures  no  Rival 

Self-Dirtidence     

The  Acquiescence  of  Pure  Love  ... 

Repo-r  indod 

I  ^ry  to  God  Alone  

Seif-love  and  Truth  Incompatible. 

Love  Faithful  in  tho  Absence  of  the 
Beloved 

The  Love  of  God,  the  End  of  Lif<-     . 

Love  Pure  and  Fervent 

The  Entire  Surrender 

The  Perfect  Sacrifice 

God  Hides  His  People     .     ...... 

The  Secrets  of  Divine  Love  are  to  be 
kept  

The  Vicissitudes  Experienced  in  the 
Christian  Life  

Watching  unto  God  in  the.  Night  Sea- 
son    

On  the  Same 

On  the  Same 

The  Joy  of  the  Cross 

Joy  in  Martyrdom  

Simple  Trust 

The  Necessity  of  Self-abasement.  . . . 

Love  Increased  by  Suffering 

Scenes  Favorable  to  Meditation 


f>12 

616 
617 

618 
618 

619 
GL'O 

621 
823 


624 

626 

f.'JT 
Cl'7 


628 
129 


631 
631 
632 

632 

633 
636 

(539 
(HO 
641 
641 
643 
643 
643 
644 
045 


Translations  from  the  Fables  of  Gay  :— 

Lepus  Multis  Amicis 647 

Avarus  et  Plutus 648 

Papilio  et  Limax 64fl 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 

OP 

WILLIAM   COWPER 


VERSES  WRITTEN  AT  BATH, 

ON    FINDING    THE    HEEL    OF    A    SHOE,    IN    1748. 

FORTUNE  !  I  thank  thee :  gentle  goddess,  thanks  ! 

Not  that  my  Muse,  though  bashful,  shall  deny 

She  would  have  thank'd  thee  rather,  hadst  thou  cast 

A  treasure  in  her  way  ;  for  neither  meed 

Of  early  breakfast,  to  dispel  the  fumes 

And  bowel-raking  pains  of  emptine--. 

Nor  noontide  feast,  nor  evening's  cool  repast, 

Hopes  she  from  this,  presumptuous — though  perhaps 

The  cobbler,  leather-carving  artist,  might. 

Nathless  she  thanks  thee,  and  accepts  thy  boon, 

Whatever ;  not  as  erst  the  fabled  cock, 

Vainglorious  fool,  unknowing  what  he  found, 

Spurn'd  the  rich  gem  thou  gavest  him.     Wherefore  ah! 

Why  not  on  me  that  favor  (worthier  sure  !) 

Coriferr'dst  thou,  goddess?     Thou  art  blind,  thou  sayest 

Enough  ! — thy  blindness  shall  excuse  the  deed. 

Nor  does  my  Muse  no  benefit  exhale 
From  this  thy  scant  indulgence  ; — even  here, 
Hints,  worthy  sage  philosophy,  are  found, 
Illustrious  hints  to  moralize  my  song. 
This  ponderous  Heel  of  perforated  hide 
Compact,  with  pegs  indented  many  a  row, 
Haply,  (for  such  its  massy  form  bespeaks,) 
The  weighty  tread  of  some  rude  peasant  clown 
Upbore  :  on  this  supported  oft  he  stretch'd, 
With  uncouth  strides,  along  the  furrow'd  glebe, 

(35) 


26 


OF  HIMSELF. 


Flattering  the  stubborn  clod,  till  cruel  time 

(What  will  not  cruel  time  ?)  on  awry  step, 

Sever'd  the  strict  cohesion  ;  when,  alas ! 

He,  who  could  erst  with  even  equal  pace, 

Pursue  his  destined  way  with  symmetry 

And  some  proportion  form'd,  now,  on  one  side, 

Curtail'd  and  maim'd,  the  sport  of  vagrant  boys, 

Cursing  his  frail  supporter,  treacherous  prop  ! 

With  toilsome  steps,  and  difficult,  moves  on. 

Thus  fares  it  oft  with  other  than  the  feet  ' 

Of  humble  villager : — the  statesman  thus, 

Up  the  steep  road  where  proud  ambition  leads, 

Aspiring,  first  uninterrupted  winds 

His  prosperous  way  ;  nor  fears  miscarriage  foul, 

While  policy  prevails  and  friends  prove  true : 

But  that  support  soon  failing,  by  him  left 

On  whom  he  most  depended, — basely  left, 

Betray'd,  deserted, — from  his  airy  height 

Headlong  he  falls,  and  through  the  rest  of  life 

Drags  the  dull  load  of  disappointment  on. 


OF  HIMSELF. 


WILLIAM   was  once   a  bashful 

youth ; 

His  modesty  was  such, 
That  one  might  say  (to  say  the 

truth), 
He  rather  had  too  much. 

Some  said  that  it  was  want  of 
sense, 

And  others,  want  of  spirit 
(So  blest  a  thing  is  impudence), 

While  others  could  not  bear  it. 

But  some  a  different  notion  had, 
And  at  each  other  winking, 

Observed  that  though  he  little 

said, 
He  paid  it  off  with  thinking. 

Howe'er,    it   happened,    by   de- 
grees, 
He  mended  and  grew  perter ; 


In  company  was  more  at  ease, 
And  dressed  a  little  smarter ; 

Nay,  now  and  then  would  look 

quite  gay, 
As  other  people  do  ; 
And  sometimes  said,  or  tried  to 

say, 
A  witty  thing  or  so. 

He  eyed  the  women,  and  made 

free 

To  comment  on  their  shapes  ; 
So  that  there  was,  or  seemed  to 

be 
No  fear  of  a  relapse. 

The  women  said,  who  thought 

him  rough, 

But  now  no  longer  foolish, 
"  The     creature    may    do    well 

enough, 
"  But  wants  a  deal  of  polish." 


APOLOGY  TO  DELIA. 


At  length,  improved  from  head 
to  heel,  [say, 

"  Twere  scarce  too  much  to 
No  dancing  bear  was  so  genteel, 

Or  half  so  dtgagt. 


Now  that  a  miracle  so  strange 
May  not  in  vain  be  shown 

Let  the  dear  iii.-iid*  who  wrought 

the  rlian^<> 
E'en  claim  him  for  her  own. 


POEMS  TO  DELIA. 

Catfield.t  July,  1752. 
AX    APOLOGY   FOR   NOT   SHOWING   HER   WHAT   I   HAD    WROTE. 


DID  not  my  Muse  (what  can  she 

less  ?) 

Perceive  her  own  unworthine>-. 
Could  she  by  some  well-chosen 

theme, 

But  hope  to  merit  your  esteem, 
She  would  not  thus  conceal  her 

lays, 

Ambitious  to  deserve  your  praise, 
But  should   my  Delia  take   off- 
ence, 

And  frown  on  her  impertinence, 
In    silence,   sorrowing  and   for- 
lorn, 


Would     the     despairing    trifler 

mourn,  [lute, 

Curse  her  ill-tuned,  uripleasing 
Then  sigh  and  sit  forever  mute. 
In  secret  therefore  let  her  play, 
Squandering     her     idle     notes 

away, 

In  secret  as  she  chants  along, 
Cheerful  and  careless  in  her  song; 
Nor  heeds  she  whether  harsh  or 

clear. 

Free  from  each  terror,  every  fear, 
From  that,  of  all  most  dreaded, 

free, 
The  terror  of  offending  thee. 


APOLOGY  TO  DELIA. 


FOR   DESIRING   A   LOCK   OF   HER   HAIR. 


DELIA,   the    unkindest  girl  on 
earth, 

When  I  besought  the  fair, 
That  favor  of  intrinsic  worth 

A  ringlet  of  her  hair, 


Refused  that  instant  to  comply 
With  my  absurd  request, 

For  reasons  she  could  specify, 
Some  twenty  score  at  least. 


*  His  cousin,  Theodora  Cowper. 

t  "  Outfield  ; "  Ed.  1825,  probably  "  Catfield,"  the  parish  in  Norfolk  of  which  Cow- 
per's  maternal  uncle,  the  Rev.  Roger  Donne,  was  rector.  The  Delia  of  the  Poet  waa 
his  cousin,  Theodora  Jane  Cowper,  to  whom  he  was  much  attached.  His  love  was  re- 
turned, but  her  father,  Mr.  Ashley  Cowper,  refused  to  consent  to  their  union.  "  Delia  " 
died  unmarried  in  1824- 


THE  SYMPTOMS  OF  LOVE. 


Trust  me,  my  dear,  however  odd 

It  may  appear  to  say, 
I  sought  it  merely  to  defraud 

Thy  spoiler  of  his  prey. 

Yes !  when  its  sister  locks  shall 

fade, 

As  quickly  fade  they  must, 
When  all  their  beauties  are  de- 
cayed, 
Their  gloss,  their  color,  lost — 

Ah  then  !  if  haply  to  my  share 
Some  slender  pittance,  fall, 

A.t  the  same  place. 


If  I  but  gain  one  single  hair, 
Nor  age  usurp  them  all ; — 

When  you  behold  it  still  as  sleek, 

As  lovely  to  the  view, 
As  when  it  left  thy  snowy  neck, 

That  Eden  where  it  grew, 

Then  shall  my  Delia's  self  declare 
That  I  professed  the  truth, 

And  have  preserved  my    little 

share 
In  everlasting  youth. 


THE  SYMPTOMS  OF  LOVE. 

WOULD  my  Delia  know  if  I  love,  let  her  take 

My  last  thought  at  night,  and  the  first  when  I  wake  ; 

When  my  prayers  and  best  wishes  preferr'd  for  her  sake. 

Let  her  guess  what  I  muse  on,  when  rambling  alone 
I  stride  o'er  the  stubble  each  day  with  my  gun, 
Never  ready  to  shoot  till  the  covey  is  flown. 

Let  her  think  what  odd  whimsies  I  have  in  my  brain, 
When  I  read  one  page  over  and  over  again, 
And  discover  at  last  that  I  read  it  in  vain. 

Let  her  say  why  so  fix' d  and  so  steady  my  look, 
Without  ever  regarding  the  person  who  spoke, 
Still  affecting  to  laugh,  without  hearing  the  joke. 

Or  why,  when  with  pleasure  her  praises  I  hear, 
(That  sweetest  of  melody  sure  to  my  ear,) 
I  attend,  and  at  once  inattentive  appear. 

And  lastly,  when  summon'd  to  drink  to  my  flame, 
Let  her  guesa  why  I  never  once  mention  her  name, 
Though  herself  and  the  woman  I  love  are  the  same. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  QUARREL. 


29 


AN  ATTEMPT  AT  THE  MANNER  OF  WALLER. 


DID  not  thy  reason  and  thy  sense, 
With  most  persuasive  eloquence, 
Convince  me  that  obedience  due, 
None  may  so  justly  claim  as  you, 
By  right  of  beauty  you  would  be 
Mistress  o'er  my  heart  and  me. 

Then  fear  not  I  should  e'er  rebel 
My  gentle  love  !  I  might  as  well 
A  froward  peevishness  put  on, 
And  quarrel  with  the  mid-day 

sun ; 
Draytou,  March,  1763. 


Or  question  who  gave  him  a  right 
To  be  so  fiery  and  so  bright. 

Nay,  this  were  less  absurd  and 

vain 

Than  disobedience  to  thy  reign  ; 
His  beams  are  often  too  severe  ; 
But  thou  art  mild,  as  thou  are 

fair; 
First  from  necessity  we  own  you* 

sway, 
Then  scorn  our  freedom,  and  by 

choice  obey. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  QUARREL. 
(THE  DELIVERY  OP  IT  PREVENTED  BY  A  RECONCILIATION.) 


THINK,  Delia,  with  what  cruel 
haste 

Our  fleeting  pleasures  move, 
Nor  heedless  thus  in  sorrow  waste 

The  moments  due  to  love  ; 

Be  wise,  my  fair,  and  gently  treat 
These  few  that  are  our  friends; 

Think   thus   abused,    what  sad 

regret 
Their  speedy  flight  attends ! 

Sure  in  those  eyes  I  loved  so  well, 
And  wish'd  so  long  to  see, 

Anger  I   thought    could    never 

dwell, 
Or  anger  aiin'd  at  me. 


No  bold  offence  of  mine  I  knew 
Should  e'er  provoke  your  hate; 

And,  early  taught  to  think  you 

true, 
Still  hoped  a  gentler  fate. 

With  kindness  bless  the  present 
hour, 

Or  oh  !  we  meet  in  vain  ! 
What  can  we  do  in  absence  more 

Than  suffer  and  complain  ? 

Fated  to  ills  beyond  redress, 
We  must  endure  our  woe  ; 

The  days  allow'd  us  to  possess, 
'Tis  madness  to  forego. 


3° 


APPEAL  TO  DELIA  FOR  FORGIVENESS. 


RECONCILIATION. 


THIS  evening,  Delia,  you  and  I 
Have  managed  most  delightfully, 

For  with  a  frown  we  parted  ; 
Having  contrived  some  trifle  that 
We  both  may  be  much  troubled 
at, 

And  sadly  disconcerted. 

Yet  well  as  each  performed  their 

part, 
"W  e  might  perceive  it  was  but  art; 

And  that  we  both  intended 
To  sacrifice  a  little  ease  ; 
For  all  such  pretty  flaws  as  these 

Are  made  but  to  be  mended. 

You  knew,  dissembler  1   all  the 
while, 

At  Outfield. 


How  sweet  it  was  to  reconcile 

After  this  heavy  pelt ; 
That   we    should   gain   by  this 

allay 
When  next  we  met,  and  laugh 

away 
The  care  we  never  felt. 

Happy!   when   we   but  seek  to 

endure 
A  little  pain,  then  find  a  cure 

By  double  joy  requited  ; 
For  friendship,    like    a  severed 

bone, 
Improves  and  gains  a  stronger 

tone 
When  aptly  reunited. 


APPEAL  TO  DELIA  FOR  FORGIVENESS. 


SEE    where    the    Thames,    the 

purest  stream 
That    wavers    to  the    noonday 

beam, 

Divides  the  vale  below ; 
While  like  a  vein  of  liquid  ore 
His    waves    enrich    the    happy 

shore, 
Still  shining  as  they  flow. 

Nor  yet,  my  Delia,  to  the  main 
Runs  the   sweet  tide  without  a 
stain, 

Unsullied  as  it  seems  ;  [flood 
The  Nymphs  of  many  a  sable 
Deform  with  streaks  of  oozy  mud 

The  bosom  of  the  Thames. 

Some  idle  rivulets,  that  feed 
And  suckle  every  noisome  weed, 
A  sandy  bottom  boast ; 


Forever  bright,  forever  clear 
The  trifling  shallow  rills  appear 
In  their  own  channel  lost. 

Thus   fares   it  with  the   human 

soul, 
Where  copious  floods  of  passion 

roll, 

By  genuine  love  supplied  ; 
Fair  in  itself  the  current  shows, 
But    ah !    a    thousand   anxious 

woes 
Pollute  the  noble  tide. 

These   are  emotions    known   to 

few ; 
For  where  at  most  a  vapory  dew 

Surrounds  the  tranquil  heart, 
Then  as  the  triflers  never  prove 
The  glad  excess  of  real  love, 

They  never  prove  the  smart. 


TO  DELIA. 


Oh  then,  my  life,  at  last  relent  1 
Though  cruel  the  reproach  I  sent, 

My  sorroM"  was  unfeigned  : 
Your  passi<  n,  had  I  loved  you 

not, 

You    might    have    scorned,   re- 
nounced, forgot, 
And  I  had  ne'er  complained. 


While  you  indulge  aground  less 

fear, 
The  imaginary  woes  you  bear, 

Are  real  woes  to  me : 
But   thou   art  kind,   and   good 
thou  art,  [heart, 

Nor  wilt,  by  wronging  thine  own 
Unjustly  punish  me. 


TO  DELIA. 

HIS   HAPPINESS   DEPENDS   ON   DELIA'S   FAVOR,    NOT   ON   THK 

GIFTS   OF   FORTUNE. 


How   blessed   the   youth   whom 

Fate  ordains 
A  kind  relief  from  all  his  pains, 

In  some  admired  fair  ; 
Whose  tenderest  wishes  find  ex- 
pressed 
Their  own   resemblance   in  her 

breast . 
Exactly  copied  there ! 

What  good  soe'er  the  gods  dis- 
pense, 
The  enjoyment  of  its  influence 

Still  on  her  love  depends  ; 
Her  love  the  shield  that  guards 

his  heart, 
Or  wards  the  blow,  or  blunts  the 

dart, 
That  peevish  Fortune  sends. 

Thus,  Delia,  while  thy  love  en- 
dures, 

The  flame  my  happy  breast  se- 
cures 


From  Fortune's  fickle  power  ; 
Change  as  she  list,  she  may  in 

crease, 
But  not  al>at»-  my  happiness, 

Confirm'd  by  thee  before. 

Thus   while  I  share  her  smiles 

with  thee, 
Welcome,  my  love,  shall  ever  be 

The  favors  she  bestows  ; 
Yet   not  on   those   I  found  my 

bliss, 

But  in  the  noble  ecstasies 
The  faithful  bosom  knows. 

And  when  she  prunes  her  wings 

for  flight, 
And   flutters    nimbly   from    my 

sight, 

Contented  I  resign 
Whate'er    she   gave ;    thy   love 

alone 

I  can  securely  call  my  own, 
Happy  while  that  is  mine. 


32         WRITTEN  AFTER  LEA  VING  HER  AT  NEW  BURNS. 


DELIA'S  ABSENCE. 

/ 

BID  adieu,  my  sad  heart,  bid  adieu  to  thy  peace ! 
Thy  pleasure  is  past,  and  thy  sorrows  increase  ; 
See  the  shadows  of  evening  how  far  they  extend, 
And  a  long  night  is  coming,  that  never  may  end ; 
For  the  sun  is  now  set  that  enlivened  the  scene, 
And  an  age  must  be  past  ere  jt  rises  again. 

Already  deprived  of  its  splendor  and  heat, 
I  feel  thee  more  slowly,  more  heavily  beat ; 
Perhaps,  overstrain' d  with  the  quick  pulse  of  pleasure, 
Thou  art  glad  of  this  respite  to  beat  at  thy  leisure  ; 
But  the  sigh  of  distress  shall  now  weary  thee  more 
Than  the  flutter  and  tumult  of  passion  before. 

The  heart  of  a  lover  is  never  at  rest, 
With  joy  overwhelm'd,  or  with  sorrow  oppressed  : 
When  Delia  is  near,  all  is  ecstacy  then, 
And  I  even  forget  I  must  lose  her  again  : 
When  absent,  as  wretched  as  happy  before, 
Despairing  I  cry,  "  I  shall  see  her  no  more  1 ' 
Berkhampstead. 


WRITTEN  AFTER,  LEAVING  HER  AT  NEW  BURNS 

How  quick  the  change  from  joy  to  woe ! 
How  checkered  is  our  lot  below  ! 
Seldom  we  view  the  prospect  fair, 
Dark  clouds  of  sorrow,  pain,  and  care, 
(Some  pleasing  intervals  between,) 
Scowl  over  more  than  half  the  scene. 
Last  night  with  Delia,  gentle  maid, 
Far  hence  in  happier  fields  I  strayed, 
While  on  her  dear  enchanting  tongue 
Soft  sounds  of  grateful  welcome  hung, 
For  absence  had  withheld  it  long. 
"  Welcome,  my  long-lost  love,"  she  said, 
"  E'er  since  our  adverse  fates  decreed 
"  That  we  must  part,  and  I  must  mourr 
"Till  once  more  blessed  by  thy  return, 

Love,  on  whose  influence  I  relied 
"  For  all  the  transports  I  enjoyed, 


. . 


ON  HER  ENDEA  VORING  TO  CONCEAL  HER  GRIEF.       33 

"  Has  played  the  cruel  tyrant's  part 
"  And  turned  tormentor  to  my  heart. 
"  But  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  breast, 
"  Dear  partner  of  my  joy  and  rest, 
"  And  not  a  pain,  and  not  a  fear, 
"Or  anxious  doubt  shall  enter  there." 
Happy,  thought  I,  the  favored  youth, 
Blessed  with  such  undissembled  truth  I 
Five  suns  successive  rose  and  set, 
And  saw  no  monarch  in  his  state, 
Wrapped  in  the  blaze  of  majesty, 
So  free  from  every  care  as  I. 

Next  day  the  scene  was  overcast ; 
Such  day  till  then  I  never  passed, 
For  on  that  day,  relentless  fate  I 
Delia  and  I  must  separate. 
Yet  ere  we  looked  our  last  farewell, 
From  her  dear  lips  this  comfort  fell : 
"  Fear  not  that  time,  where'er  we  rove, 
"  Or  absence  shall  abate  my  love." 
And  can  I  doubt,  my  charming  maid, 
As  unsincere  what  you  have  said  ? 
Banished  from  thee  to  what  I  hate, 
Dull  neighbors  and  insipid  chat, 
No  joy  to  cheer  me,  none  in  view, 
But  the  dear  hope  of  meeting  you  ; 
And  that  through  passion's  optic  scene, 
With  ages  interposed  between  ; 
Blessed  with  the  kind  support  you  give, 
'Tis  by  your  promised  truth  I  live  ; 
How  deep  my  woes,  how  fierce  my  flame, 
You  best  may  tell,  who  feel  the  same. 
At  Berkhampstead. 


ON  HER  ENDEAVORING  TO  CONCEAL  HER  GRIEF 

AT  PARTING. 

AH  !  wherefore  should  my  weeping  maid  suppress 
Those  gentle  signs  of  undissembled  woe  ? 

When  from  soft  love  proceeds  the  deep  distress. 
Ah !  why  forbid  the  willing  tears  to  flow  ? 


34  DESPAIR  A  T  HIS  SEPARA  TION  FROM  DELIA. 

Since  for  my  sake  each  dear  translucent  drop 
Breaks  forth,  best  witness  of  thy  truth  sincere, 

My  lips  should  drink  the  precious  mixture  up, 
And,  ere  it  falls,  receive  the  trembling  tear. 

Trust  me,  these  symptoms  of  thy  faithful  heart, 
In  absence  shall  my  dearest  hope  sustain  ; 

Delia  !  since  such  thy  sorrow  that  we  part, 
Such  when  we  meet  thy  joy  shall  be  again. 

Hard  is  that  heart,  and  unsubdued  by  love 
That  feels  no  pain,  nor  ever  heaves  a  sigh  ; 

Such  hearts  the  fiercest  passions  only  prove. 
Or  freeze  in  cold  insensibility. 

Oh  !  then  indulge  thy  grief,  nor  fear  to  tell, 

The  gentle  source  from  whence  thy  sorrows  flow 

Nor  think  it  weakness  when  we  love  to  feel, 
Nor  think  it  weakness  what  we  feel  to  show. 


DESPAIR  AT  HIS  SEPARATION  FROM  DELIA. 

HOPE,  like  the  short-lived  ray  that  gleams  awhile 
Through  wintry  skies,  upon  the  frozen  waste, 

Cheers  e'en  the  face  of  misery  to  a  smile  ; 
But  soon  the  momentary  pleasure's  past. 

How  oft,  my  Delia,  since  our  last  farewell, 

(Years  that  have  rolled  since  that  distressful  hour  !) 

Grieved  I  have  said,  when  most  our  hopes  prevail, 
Our  promised  happiness  is  least  secure. 

Oft  I  have  thought  the  scene  of  troubles  closed, 
Arid  hoped  once  more  to  gaze  upon  your  charms  ; 

As  oft  some  dire  mischance  has  interposed, 
And  snatched  the  expected  blessing  from  my  arms. 

The  seaman  thus,  his  shattered  vessel  lost, 

Still  vainly  strives  to  shun  the  threatening  death  ; 

And  while  he  thinks  to  gain  the  friendly  coast, 
And  drops  his  feet,  and  feels  the  sand  beneath, 

Borne  by  the  wave  steep-sloping  from  the  shore, 
Back  to  the  inclement  deep,  again  he  beats 

The  surge  aside,  and  seems  to  tread  secure ; 
And  now  the  refluent  wave  his  baffled  toil  defeats. 


K.  s.  s.  35 

PI  ad  you,  my  love,  forbade  me  to  pursue 

My  fond  attempt,  disdainfully  retired, 
And  with  proud  scorn  compelled  me  to  subdue 

The  ill-fated  passion  by  yourself  inspired  ; 

Then  haply  to  some  distant  spot  removed, 

Hopeless  to  gain,  unwilling  to  molest 
With  fond  entreaties  whom  I  dearly  loved, 

Despair  or  absence  had  redeemed  my  rest. 

But  now,  sole  partner  in  my  Delia's  heart, 

Yet  doomed  far  off  in  exile  to  complain, 
Eternal  absence  cannot  ease  my  smart, 

And  hope  subsists  but  to  prolong  my  pain. 

Oh  then,  kind  Heaven,  be  this  my  latest  breath  ! 

Here  end  my  life,  or  make  it  worth  my  care  ; 
Absence  from  whom  we  love  is  worse  than  death, 

And  frustrate  hope  severer  than  despair. 


rv.  S.  S. 

ALL-WORSHIPPED  Gold  !  Thou  mighty  mystery  I 

Say  by  what  name  shall  1  ad<lre>s  the<-  rather, 

Our  blessing,  or  our  bane  ?     Without  thy  aid, 

The  generous  pangs  of  pity  but  distre 

The  human  heart,  that  fain  would  feel  the  bliss 

Of  blessing  others  ;   and  enslaved  by  thee, 

Far  from  relieving  woes  which  others  feel. 

Misers  oppress  Themselves.     Our  blessing  thru, 

With  virtue  when  possessed  ;   without,  or  bane! 

If  in  my  bosom  unperceived  there  lurk 

The  deep-sown  seeds  of  avarice  or  ambition, 

Blame  me,  ye  great  ones,  (for  I  scorn  your  censure! 

But  let  the  generous  and  the  good  commend  me, 

That  to  my  Delia  I  direct  them  all, 

The  worthiest  object  of  a  virtuous  love. 

Oh  !  to  some  distant  scene,  a  willing  exile 

From  the  wild  uproar  of  this  busy  world, 

Were  it  my  fate  with  Delia  to  retire ; 

With  her  to  wander  through  the  sylvan  shade, 

Each  morn,  or  o'er  the  moss  imbrowned  turf, 

Where,  blessed  as  the  prime  parents  of  mankind 

In  their  own  Eden,  we  would  envy  none  ; 


WRITTEN  IN  A  FIT  OF  ILLNESS. 


But,  greatly  pitying  whom  the  world  calls  happy, 

Gently  spin  out  the  silken  thread  of  life  ; 

While  from  her  lips  attentive  I  receive 

The  tenderest  dictates  of  the  purest  flame, 

And  from  her  eyes  (where  soft  complacence  sits 

Illumined  with  the  radiant  beams  of  sense,) 

Tranquillity  beyond  a  monarch's  reach. 

Forgive  me,  Heaven,  this  only  avarice 

My  soul  indulges  ;  I  confess  the  crime, 

(If  to  esteem,  to  covet  such  perfection 

Be  criminal,)  oh  grant  me,  Delia  !  grant  me  wealth  ! 

Wealth  to  alleviate,  not  increase  my  wants  \ 

And  grant  me  virtue,  without  which  nor  wealth 

Nor  Delia  can  avail  to  make  me  blessed. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  FIT  OF  ILLNESS. 

xv>    S  •    S  . 

these  sad  hours,  a  prey  to  ceaseless  pain, 
While  feverish  pulses  leap  in  every  vein, 
When  each  faint  breath  the  last  short  effort  seems 
Of  life  just  parting  from  my  feeble  limbs  ; 
How  wild  soe'er  my  wandering  thoughts  may  be, 
Still,  gentle  Delia,  still  they  turn  on  thee  ! 
At  length  if,  slumbering  to  a  short  repose, 
A  sweet  oblivion  frees  me  from  my  woes, 
Thy  form  appears,  thy  footsteps  I  pursue, 
Through  springy  vales,  and  meadows  washed  in  dew  : 
Thy  arm  supports  me  to  the  fountain's  brink, 
Where  by  some  secret  power  forbid  to  drink, 
Gasping  with  thirst,  I  view  the  tempting  flood 
That  flies  my  touch,  or  thickens  into  mud  ; 
Till  thine  own  hand  immerged  the  goblet  dips, 
And  bears  it  streaming  to  my  burning  lips. 
There  borne  aloft  on  Fancy's  wing  we  fly, 
Like  souls  embodied  to  their  native  sky ; 
Now  every  rock,  each  mountain,  disappears  ; 
And  the  round  earth  an  even  surface  wears  ; 
When  lo  !  the  force  of  some  resistless  weight 
Bears  me  straight  down  from  that  pernicious  height ; 
Parting,  in  vain  our  struggling  arms  we  close  ; 
Abhorred  forms,  dire  phantoms  interpose  ; 
With  trembling  voice  on  thy  loved  name  I  call ; 
And  gulfs  yawn  ready  to  receive  my  fall. 


TO  DELIA.  37 


Prom  these  fallacious  visions  of  distress 

I  wake  ;  nor  are  my  real  sorrows  loss. 

Thy  absence,  Delia,  heightens  every  ill, 

And  gives  e'en  trivial  pains  the  power  to  kill, 

Oh  !  wert  thou  near  me  ;  yet  that  wish  forbeai  ' 

'Twere  vain,  my  love, —'twere  vain  to  wish  me  wear 

Thy  tender  heart  would  heave  with  anguish  too» 

And  by  partaking,  but  increase  my  woe. 

Alone  I'll  grieve,  till  gloomy  sorrow  past, 

Health,  like  the  cheerful  day-spring,  comes  at  last,- 

Comes  fraught  with  bliss  to  banish  every  pain, 

Hope,  joy,  and  peace,  and  Delia  in  her  train  ! 


TO  DELIA. 


MK  to  whatever  state  the  go,  Is  a.  -sign, 
Believe,  my  love,  whatever  Mate  l>e  mine. 
Ne'er  shall  my  breaM  one  anxious  sorrow  kno'- 
Ne'er  shall  my  heart  eont'«-»   i  real  woe  ; 
If  to'thy  share  Heaven's  rhou-est  blessings  fa.ll. 
As  thou  hast  virtue  to  deserve  them  all  ; 
/et  vain,  alas  !  that  idle  hope  would  be 
That  builds  on  happines>  remote  from  thee. 
Oh  !  may  thy  charms,  whate'er  our  fate  decrees, 
Please,  as  they  must,  but  let  them  only  ploase— 
Not  like  the  sun  with  equal  influence  shine, 
Nor  warm  with  transport  any  heart  but  mine. 
Ye  who  from  wealth  the  ill  grounded  title  botiM 
To  claim  whatever  beauty  charms  you  most; 
Ye  sons  of  fortune,  who  consult  alone 
Her  parents'  will,  regardless  of  her  own. 
Know  that  a  love  like  ours,  a  generous  ilame, 
No  wealth  can  purchase,  and  no  power  reclaim 
The  soul's  affection  can  be  only  given 
Free,  imextorted,  as  the  grace  of  Heaven. 

Is  there  whose  faithful  bosom  can  endure 
Pangs  fierce  as  mine,  nor  ever  hope  a  cure  ? 
Who  sighs  in  absence  of  the  dear-loved  maid, 
Nor  summons  once  Indifference  to  his  aid  '.' 
Who  can,  like  me,  the  nice  resentment  prove. 
The  thousand  soft  disquietudes  of  love  ; 
The  trivial  strifes  that  cause  a  real  pain  ; 
The  real  bliss  when  reconciled  again  ? 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 


Let  him  alone  dispute  the  real  prize, 
And  read  his  sentence  in  my  Delia's  eyes  ; 
There  shall  he  read  all  gentleness  and  truth, 
But  not  himself,  the  dear  distinguished  youth  ; 
Pity  for  him  perhaps  they  may  express  — 
Pity,  that  will  but  heighten  his  distress. 
But,  wretched  rival  !  he  must  sigh  to  see 
The  sprightlier  rays  of  love  directed  all  to  me. 

And  thou,  dear  Antidote  of  every  pain 
Which  fortune  can  inflict,  or  love  ordain, 
Since  early  love  has  taught  me  to  despise 
What  the  world's  worthless  votaries  only  prize, 
Believe,  my  love  !  no  less  the  generous  god 
Rules  in  my  breast,  his  ever  blest  abode  ; 
There  has  he  driven  each  gross  dssire  away, 
Directing  every  wish  and  every  thought  to  thee  ! 
Then  can  I  ever  leave  my  Delia's  arms, 
A  slave,  devoted  to  inferior  charms? 
Can  e'er  my  soul  hei  reason  so  disgrace  ? 
For  what  blest  minister  of  heavenly  race 
Would  quit  that  Heaven  to  find  a  happier  place  ? 


DISAPPOINTMENT. 

[WRITTEN  AFTER  THE  LAST  MEETING  BETWEEN  COWPER  AND 

HIS  DELIA.] 

DOOM'D,  as  I  am,  in  solitude  to  waste 

The  present  moments,  and  regret  the  past ; 

Deprived  of  every  joy  I  valued  most, 

My  friend  torn  from  me,*  and  my  mistress  lost, 

Call  not  this  gloom  I  wear,  this  anxious  mien, 

The  dull  effect  of  humor,  or  of  spleen  ! 

Still,  still  I  mourn,  with  each  returning  day, 

Him  snatch' d  by  fate  in  early  youth  away  ; 

And  her — through  tedious  years  of  doubt  and  pain, 

Fix'd  in  her  choice,  and  faithful — but  in  vain  ! 

Oh  prone  to  pity,  generous,  and  sincere, 

Whose  eye  ne'er  yet  refused  the  wretch  a  tear  ; 

Whose  heart  the  real  claim  of  friendship  knows, 

Nor  thinks  a  lover's  are  but  fancied  woes ; 

*  Sir  William  Russell,  accidentally  drowned.  1757. 


AN  ODE  ON  READING  "  SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON"       39 


See  me — ere  yet  my  destined  course  half  done 
Cast  forth  a  wanderer  on  a  world  unknown  I 
See  me  neglected  on  the  world's  rude  roast, 
Each  dear  companion  of  my  voyage  lost ! 
Nor  ask  why  clouds  of  sorrow  shade  my  brow, 

•  « 

And  ready  tears  wait  only  leave  to  flow  ! 

Why  all  that  soothes  a  heart  from  anguish  free, 

And  that  delights  the  happy — palls  with  me  ! 


UPON  A  VENERABLE  RIVAL. 


Full  thirty  frosts  since  thou  wert 

young 
Have      chill'd      the     wither'd 

grove, 
Thou    wretch  !    and  hast    thou 

lived  so  long, 
Nor  yet  forgot  to  love  ! 

Ye  Sages!  spite  of  your  pret  m 
To  wisdom,  you  must  own 

Your  folly  frequently  commences 
When  you  acknowledge  none. 

Not  that  I  deem  it  weak  to  love, 
Or  folly  to  admire  ;          (prove 

But  ah!    the   pangs    we 
Far  other  years  require. 


Unheeded  on  the  youthful  brow 
The  beams  of  Phoebus  play  ; 

Hut  unsupported  Atje  stoops  low 
Beneath  the  Miltry  ray. 

For    once,    then,    if    untutor'd 

youth. 

Y«»uth  unapproved  by  years. 

May  chance  to deyiate  into  truth, 

When  your  experience  errs  ; 

For  once  attempt  not  to  despise 
What  I  esteem  a  rule : 

Who  early  loves,  though  young, 

is  \vi- 
Who  old,  though  gray,  a  fool. 


AN  ODE  ON  READING  "  SIR  CHARLES  GRANDISON." 

1753.* 


SAY,  ye  apostate  and  profane. 
Wretches  who  blush  not  to  dis- 
dain 

Allegiance  to  your  God, 
Did  e'er  your  idly-wasted  love 
Of  virtue  for  her  sake  remove 

And  lift  you  from  the  crowd  ? 


Would  you  the  race  of  glory  run. 
Know,  the  devout,  and  they 
alone, 

Are  equal  to  the  task  :  [course 
The  labors  of  the  illustrious 
Far  other  than  the  unaided  force 

Of  human  vigor  ask. 


*  Published  by  Richardson,  in  1753. 


IN  A  LETTER  TO  THE  SAME. 


To  arm  against  repeated  ill 
The  patient  heart,  too  brave  to 

feel 

The  tortures  of  despair  ; 
Nor  safer  yet  high-crested  Pride, 
When  wealth  flows  in  with  every 

tide 
To  gain  admittance  there. 

To  rescue  from  the  tyrant's  sword 
The  oppress'd  ; — unseen  and  un- 
implored, 

To  cheer  the  face  of  woe  ; 
From  lawless  insult  to  defend 
An  orphan's  right,  a  fallen  friend, 

And  a  forgiven  foe ; 

These,  these  distinguish  from  the 

crowd, 
And  these  alone,  the  great  and 

good, 

The  guardians  of  mankind  ; 
Whose  bosoms  with  these  virtue 

heave, 


Oh,  with  what  matchless  speed, 

they  leave 
The  multitude  behind  ! 

Then  ask  ye,  from  what  cause  on 

earth 
Virtues  like   these   derive    their 

birth  ? 

Derived  from  Heaven  alone, 
Full  on  that  favor'd  breast  they 

shine, 

Where  faith  and  resignation  join 
To  call  the  blessing  down. 

Such  is  that  heart; — but  while 

the  Muse 

Thy  theme,  O  Richardson,  pur- 
sues, 

Her  feebler  spirits  faint ; 
She   cannot   reach,    and   would 

not  wrong 

That  subject  for  an  angel's  song. 
The  hero,  and  the  saint ! 


IN   A   LETTER  TO   C.   P.,    ESQ. 

ILL    WITH   THE   RHEUMATISM. 

me  the  Muse,  ye  gods  !  whose  humble  flight 
Seeks  not  the  mountain-top's  pernicious  height ; 
Who  can  the  tall  Parnassian  cliff  forsake, 
To  visit  of  the  still  Lethean  lake  ; 
Now  her  slow  pinions  brush  the  silent  shore, 
Now  gently  skim  the  unwrinkled  waters  o'er, 
There  dips  her  downy  plumes,  thence  upward  flies, 
And  sheds  soft  slumbers  on  her  votary's  eyes. 


IN   A  LETTER  TO   THE   SAME. 

IN    IMITATION    OP    SHAKESPEARE. 

TRUST  me,  the  meed  of  praise,  dealt  thriftily 
From  the  nice  scale  of  judgment,  honors  more 
Than  does  the  lavish  and  o'erbearing  tide 


ODE,  Oi\T  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  A  FRIEND.  4* 


Of  profuse  courtesy.     Not  all  the  gems 
Of  India's  richest  soil  at  random  spread 
O'er  the  gay  vesture  of  some  glittering  dame, 
Give  such  alluring  vantage  to  the  person, 
As  the  scant  lustre  of  a  f<-\v.  with  choice 
And  comely  guise  of  ornament  disposed. 


ODE,  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  ON  THE  MARRIAGE 

OF  A  FRIEND. 

THOU  magic   yre,  whose  fascinating  sound 
Seduced  his  savage  monsters  from  their  cave, 

Drew  rocks  and  trees,  and  forms  uncouth  around, 
And  hade  wild  Hchrus  hush  his  listening  wave: 

No  more  thy  undulating  warhlings  flow 

O'er  Thracian  wilds  of  everlasting  snow! 

Awake  to  sweeter  sounds,  thou  magic  lyre, 
And  paint  a  lover's  bliss — a  lover's  pain  ! 

Far  nobler  triumphs  now  thy  not«is  inspire 
For  see,  Eurydice  attends  thy  strain  ; 

Her  smile,  a  prize  beyond  the  conjurer's  aim, 

Superior  to  the  cancelled  breath  of  fame. 

From  her  sweet  brow  to  chase  the  gloom  of  care, 
To  check  the  tear  that  dims  the  beaming  eye, 

To  bid  her  heart  the  rising  sigh  forbear. 

And  flush  her  orient  cheek  with  brighter  joy, 

In  that  dear  breast  soft  sympathy  to  move, 

And  touch  the  springs  of  rapture  and  of  love. 

Ah  me  !  how  long  bewildered  and  astray, 
Lost  and  benighted,  did  my  footsteps  rove, 
Till  sent  by  Heaven  to  cheer  my  pathless  way, 

A  star  arose — the  radiant  star  of  love. 
The  God  propitious  joined  our  willing  hands 
And  Hymen  wreathed  us  in  his  rosy  bands. 

Yet  not  the  beaming  eye,  or  placid  brow, 
Or  golden  tresses,  hid  the  subtle  dart ; 

To  charms  superior  far  than  those  I  bow, 

And  nobler  worth  enslaves  my  vanquished  heart ; 

The  beauty,  elegance,  and  grace  combined, 

Which  beam  transcendent  from  that  angel  mind. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  LLOYD,  ESQ. 


While  vulgar  passions,  meteors  of  a  day, 
Expire  before  the  chilling  blasts  of  age, 

Our  holy  flame  with  pure  and  steady  ray, 

Its  gloom  shall  brighten,  and  its  pangs  assuage 

By  Virtue  (sacred  vestal)  fed,  shall  shme, 

Arid  warm  our  fainting  souls  with  energy  divine. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  LLOYD,  ESQ.* 

1754. 


'Tis  not  that  I  design  to  rob 
Thee   of  thy   birthright,  gentle 

Bob, 
For  thou  art  born  sole  heir  and 

single 

Of  dear  Mat  Prior's  easy  jingle  ; 
Nor  that  I  mean,  while  thus  I 

knit 

Jiy  threadbare    sentiments    to- 
gether, 

To  shew  my  genius  or  my  wit, 
When   God    and    you  know,    I 

have  neither  ; 
Or    such,    as    might    be    better 

shown 

By  letting  poetry  alone. 
'Tis    not  with    either    of    these 

views,  [Muse : 

That  I  presume  to  address  the 
But  to  divert  a  fierce  banditti, 
(Sworn  foes  to  everything  that's 

witty,) 

That,  with  a  black  infernal  train, 
Make  cruel  inroads  in  my  brain, 
And  daily  threaten  to  drive 

thence 

My  little  garrison  of  sense  : 
The  fierce  banditti  which  I  mean, 
Are  gloomy  thoughts  led  on  by 

Spleen. 


Then  there's  another  reason  yet, 
Which  is,  that  I  may  fairly  quit 
The  debt  which  justly  became 

due 
The  moment  when  I  heard  from 

you  : 
And  you  might  grumble,  crony 

mine, 

If  paid  in  any  other  coin  ; 
Since  twenty  sheets  of  lead,  God 

knows, 
(I   would  say   twenty  sheets  of 

prose,) 
Can  ne'er  be  deem'd  worth  half 

so  much 
As  one  of  gold,  and  yours  was 

such. 

Thus  the  preliminaries  settled, 
I   fairly   find   myself    pitch-ket- 

tled ;  f 
And  cannot  see,  though  few  see 

better, 

How  I  shall  hammer  out  a  letter. 
First,  for  a  thought — since  all 

agree — 
A  thought — I  have   it  —  let  me 

see — 
'Tis  gone  again — plague  on't !  I 

thought 
I  had  it — but  I  have  it  not. 


*  Son  of  Dr.  Pierson  Lloyd,  one  of  the  Masters  of  Westminster  School.    Robert 
Lloyd  edited  the  Connoisseur  and  St.  James's  Magazines, 
t  A  slang  word  for  puzzled. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  LLOYD,  ESQ. 


43 


Dame  Gurton  thus,   and  Hodge 

her  son, 
That  useful   thing,  her  needle, 

gone, 
Rake  well  the  cinders,  sweep  the 

floor, 
And   sift  the    dust   behind   tin' 

door ; 
While  eager  Hodge  beholds  the 

prize 

In  old  grimalkin's  glaring  eyes  ; 
And   Gammer   finds   it   on    her 

knees 

In  every  shining  straw  she  st'»--. 
This  simile  were  apt  enough, 
But  I've  another,  critic-proof. 
The  virtuoso  thus  at  noon, 
Broiling  beneath  a  July  sun, 
The  gilded  butterfly  pursues 
O'er  hedge   and  ditch,  through 

gaps  and  mews, 
And  after  many  a  vain  essay 
To  captivate  the  tempting  prey, 
Gives  him  at  length  the   lucky 

pat, 
And  has  him   safe   beneath  his 

hat ; 
Then   lifts    it    gently   from   the 

ground  ; 
But  ah !    'tis    lost    as    soon  as 

found ; 

Culprit  his  liberty  regains  ; 
Flits  out  of  sight  and  mocks  his 

pains, 

The  sense  was  dark,  'twas  there- 
fore fit 

With  simile  to  illustrate  it ; 
But  as   too  much  obscures  the 

Sight, 
As  often  as  too  little  light, 


We  have  our  similes  cut  short, 

For  matters  of  more  grave  im- 
port. 

That  Matthew's  numbers  run 
with  ease 

Each  man  of  common  sense 
agrees ; 

All  men  of  common  sense  allow, 

That  Robert's  lines  are  easy  too  ; 

Where  then  the  preference  shall 
we  place, 

Or  how  do  justice  in  this  case  ? 

Matthew  (says  Fame)  with  end- 
less pains 

Smoothed  and  refined  the  mean- 
est strains, 

Nor  suffer'd  one  ill-chosen  rhyme 

To  escape  him  at  the  idlest  time; 

And  thus  o'er  all  a  lustre  cast, 

That  while  the  language  lives 
shall  last, 

An't  please  your  ladyship  (quoth 

I,— 

For  'tis  my  business  to  reply  ;) 

Sure  so  much  labor,  so  much 
toil, 

Bespeak  at  last  a  stubborn  soil. 

Theirs  be  the  laurel-wreath  de- 
creed, 

Who  both  write  well  and  write 
full  speed  ; 

Who  throw  their  Helicon  about 

As  freely  as  a  conduit  spout. 

Friend  Robert,  thus  like  chien 
s?avant, 

Lets  fall  a  poem  en  passant* 

Nor  needs  his  genuine  ore  refine; 

'Tis  ready  polish'd  from  the 
mine. 


44 


THE  STREAM. 


THE  CERTAINTY  OF  DEATH. 


MORTALS  !  around  your  destined 

heads 

Thick  fly  the  shafts  of  Death, 
And     lo !     the     savage     spoiler 

spreads 
A  thousand  toils  beneath. 

In  vain  we  trifle  with  our  fate  ; 

Try  every  art  in  vain  ; 
At  best  we  but  prolong  the  date, 

And  lengthen  out  our  pain. 

Fondly  we  think  all  danger  fled, 
For  Death  is  ever  nigh  ; 

Outstrips  our  unavailing  speed, 
Or  meets  us  as  we  fly. 


Thus  the  wreck'd  mariner  may 
strive 

Some  desert  shore  to  gain, 
Secure  of  life,  if  he  survive 

The  fury  of  the  main. 

But  there,  to  famine  doom'd  a 
prey 

Finds  the  mistaken  wretch 
He  but  escaped  the  troubled  sea, 

To  perish  on  the  beach. 

Since  then  in  vain  we  strive  to 
guard 

Our  frailty  from  the  foe, 
Lord,  let  me  live  not  unprepared 

To  meet  the  fatal  blow  ! 


A  COMPARISON. 


THE  lapse  of  time  and  rivers  is 

the  same, 
Both  speed  their  journey  with  a 

restless  stream ; 
The  silent  pace  with  which  they 

steal  away, 
No  wealth  can  bribe,  no  prayers 

persuade  to  stay ; 
Alike    irrevocable    both     when 

past, 
And  a  wide  ocean  swallows  both 

at  last. 


in 


Though  each  resemble  each 
every  part- 

A  difference  strikes  at  length  the 
musing  heart ; 

Streams    never    flow    in    vain ; 
where  streams  abound 

How  laughs  the  land  with  vari- 
ous plenty  crowned  ! 

But  time,  that  should  enrich  the 
nobler  mind, 

Neglected,  leaves  a  dreary  waste 
behind. 


THE  STREAM. 

ADDRESSED   TO   A   YOUXG   LADY. 


SWEET  stream,  that  winds 
through  yonder  glade, 

Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid  ! 

Silent  and  chaste  she  steals 
along,  [throng, 

Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy 

With  gentle  yet  prevailing  force, 


Intent  upon  her  destined  course; 
Graceful  arid  useful  all  she  does, 
Blessing  and  blessed  where'er 

she  goes ; 
Pure-bosomed    as    that   watery 

glass, 
And  heaven  reflected  in  her  f*ce  1 


SONG 


45 


A  So\(i. 


THE  sparkling  eye,  th«>  mantling 
cheek,  (neck. 

The   polislied  front,  th<>    MK>\VV 
How  seldom  we  behold  in  one! 
Glossy  locks,  and  brow  serene. 
Venus'  smiles,  Diana's  mien, 
All    meet    in    you,    and    you 
alone. 

Beauty,  like  other  powers,  main- 
tains 

Her  empire,  and  by  union  reigns: 

Each     single    feature     faintly 

warms:  [played 

But  where  at  once  we  view  di-- 


I'nblemished    grace,    the    perfect 

maid 

Our  eyes,  oui-  ears,  our  hear! 
alarm-. 

So  when  on  earth  the  god  of  day 
Obliquely    sheds    his    tempered 

ray. 
Through     convex     orbs     the 

beams  transmit, 
The  beams  that  gently   warmed 

before. 

Collected,  gently  warm  no  more, 
But  glow  with  more  prevailing 

heal. 


SOX(i. 


No   more   shall    hapless   Celia'- 

ears 

Be  flattered  with  the  cries 
Of  lovers  drowned  in  floods   of 

tears, 

Or  murdered  by  her  eyes  ; 
No  serenade  to  break  her  rest, 
Nor  songs  her  si  umbers  to  mol.-i  . 
With  my  fa,  la,  la. 

The  fragrant  flowers  that  once 

would  bloom 
And  flourish  in  her  hair, 
Since  she    no    longer    breathes 

perfume 

Their  odors  to  repair, 
Must  fade,  alas  !  and  wither  now, 
As  placed  on  any  common  brow. 
With  my  fa,  la,  la. 

Her  lip,  so  winning  and  so  meek, 
No  longer  has  its  charm-  : 

As  well  she  might  by  whistling 

seek 
To  lure  us  to  her  arms  ; 


AiTected  once,  '  tis  real  now, 
A-  her  forsaken  guns  may  show, 
With  my  fa,  la,  la. 

The  down   that  on  her  chin  so 

smooth 

So  lovely  once  appeared, 
That,  too,  has  left  her  with  her 

youth, 

Or  sprouts  into  a  beard  ; 
As  fields,  so  green  when  newly 

sown, 

With  Stubble  stiff  are  overgrown, 
•  With  rny  fa,  la,  la. 

Then,   Celia,    leave   your   apish 

tricks, 

And  change  your  girlish  airs, 
For  ombre,  snuff,  and  politics, 
Those    joys    that     suit     your 

years  ; 

No  patches  can  lost  youth  recall, 
Nor  whitewash  prop  a  tumbling 
wall, 

With  my  fa,  la,  la. 


ADDRESS  TO  MISS  MACARTNEY. 


A  SONG. 


ON   the    green    margin    of    the 

brook 

Despairing  Phyllida  reclined, 
Whilst  every  sigh  and  every  look 
Declared  the  anguish   of  her 
mind. 

*<  Am  I  less    lovely  then  ?    (she 

cries, 
And   in   the   waves   her  form 

surveyed  ;) 
Oh  yes,  I  see  my  languid  eyes, 

My  faded  cheek,  my  color  fled  : 
These  eyes  no  more  like  lightning 

pierced, 
These   cheeks  grew  pale,  when 

Damon  first 
His  Phyllida  betrayed. 

"The  rose  he  in  his  bosom  wore, 
How  oft  upon  my  breast  was 
seen  ! 


And  when  I  kissed  the  drooping 

flower 
'  Behold,'  he  cried,  '  it  bloom! 

again ! ' 
The    wreaths    that    bound    my 

braided  hair, 
Himself  next  day  was  proud  to 

wear 
At  church,  or  on  the  green."' 

While   thus   sad  Phyllida   lam- 
ented, 
Chance  brought  unlucky  Thyr- 

sis  on  ; 

Unwillingly    the     nymph     con- 
sented, 
But    Damon   first   the    cheat 

begun. 

She  wiped  the  fallen  tears  away, 
Then  sighed  and  blushed,  as  who 

should  say, 
"  Ah  !  Thyrsis,  I  am  won." 


ADDRESS  TO  MISS  MACARTNEY, 

AFTERWARDS  MRS.  GKREVILLE,  ON  READING  HER  "  PRAYER  FOR 

INDIFFERENCE."  * 


1762. 


AND  dwells  there  in  a  female 
heart, 

By  bounteous  Heaven  design'd 
The  choicest  raptures  to  impart, 

To  feel  the  most  refined  ; 

Dwells  there  a  wish  in  such  a 
breast 

Its  nature  to  forego, 
To  smother  in  ignoble  rest 

At  once  both  bliss  and  woe  ? 


Far  be  the  thought,  and  far  the 

strain, 

Which  breathes    the   low  de- 
sire, 

How  sweet  soe'er  the  verse  com- 
plain, 

Though    Phoebus    string    the 
lyre. 

Come  then,  fair  maid,  (in  nature 

wise,) 
Who,  knowing  them,  can  tell 


*  The  prayer  was  addressed  to  Oberon,  King  of  the  Fairies. 


ADDRESS  TO  MISS  MACARTNEY. 


47 


From  generous  sympathy  what 

jo 

The  glowing  bosom  swell  ; 

In  justice  to  the  various  powers 
Of  pleasing,  which  you  share, 

Join  me,  amid  your  silent  hours, 
To  form  the  better  prayer. 

With  lenient  balm  may  Oberon 

hence 

To  fairy- land  be  driven, 
With  every  herb  that  l>lunts  the 


Mankind  received   from   Hea- 
ven. 

"Oh,  if    my   Sovereign   Author 
please, 

Far  be  it  from  my  fate, 
To  live  unblest  in  torpid  ea 

And  slumber  on  in  state  ; 

"  Each  tender  tie  of  life  defied, 

Whence  social  pleas  in 
Unmoved  with  all  the  world 
side, 

A  solitary  thing." 

Some  Alpine  mountain  wrapt  in 

snow, 
Thus     braves     the      whirling 

blast, 

Eternal  winter  doomed  to  know, 
No  genial  spring  to  taste  ; 

In  vain  warm  suns  their  influ- 
ence shed. 

The  zephyrs  sport  in  vain, 
He  rears  unchanged  his  barren 

head, 
Whilst  beauty  decks  the  plain. 

What   though    in    scaly   armor 

dress'd, 

Indifference  may  repel 
The  shafts   of   woe,   in   su<;h    a 

breast 
No  joy  can  erer  dwell. 


'Tis  woven  in  the  world's  great 
plan, 

And  fix'd  by  Heaven's  decree, 
That  all  the  true  delights  of  man 

Should  spring  from  sympathy. 

'Tis  nature  bids,  and  whilst  the 
laws 

Of  nature  we  retain, 
Our  self-approving  bosom  draws 

A  pleasure  from  its  pain. 

Thus  grief  itself  has  comforts 
dear, 

The  sordid  never  know  ; 
And  ecstasy  attends  the  tear, 

When  virtue  bids  it  flow. 

For  when  it  streams  from  that 
pure  source, 

No  bribes  the  heart  can  win, 
To  check,  or  alter  from  its  course 

The  luxury  within. 

Peace  to  the   phlegm   of  sullen 

elves, 

Who.  if  from  labor  eased, 
Extend    no    care  beyond  them- 
selves, 
Unpleasing  and  unpleased. 

Let  no  low  thought  suggest  the 
prayer !  [me, 

Oh !  grant,  kind  Heaven,  to 
Long  as  I  draw  etherial  air, 

Sweet  Sensibility ! 

Where'er  the  heavenly  nymph  is 

seen, 

With  lustre-beaming  eye, 
A     train,    attendant    on     their 

queen, 
(Her  rosy  chorus)  fly. 

The   jocund  Loves  in    Hymen's 

band, 

With  torches  ever  bright, 
And  generous  Friendship  hand 

in  hand, 
With  Pity's  watery  sight. 


AA?  ODE. 


The  gentler  Virtues  too  are  join'd 
In  youth  immortal  warm, 

The    soft  relations  which  com- 
bined 
Give  life  her  every  charm. 

The  Arts   come   smiling  in   the 

close, 

And  lend  celestial  fire  ; 
The  marble  breathes,   the  can- 
vas glows, 
The  muses  sweep  the  lyre. 

' k  Still   may  iny  melting   bosom 

cleave 

To  sufferings  not  my  own  ; 
And   still    the    sigh    responsive 

heave, 
Where'er  is  heard  a  groan. 

'So   Pity    shall    take    Virtue's 

part, 
Her  natural  allv 


And     fashioning     my     soften'd 

heart, 
Prepare  it  for  the  sky." 

This  artless  vow  may  Heaven 
receive, 

And  you,  fond  maid,  approve  ; 
So  may  your  guiding  angel  give 

Whate'er  you  wish  or  love. 

So  may  the  rosy-finger 'd  hours 
Lead  on  the  various  year, 

And   every   joy,   which    now  is 

yours, 
Extend  a  larger  sphere. 

And  suns  to  come,  as  round  they 
wheel, 

Your  golden  moments  bless, 
With  all  a  tender  heart  can  feel, 

Or  lively  fancy  guess. 


AN  ODE.* 

SECUNDUM   ARTEM. 
I. 

SHALL  I  begin  with  Ah,  or  Oh  ? 

Be  sad  ?  Oh  I  yes.  Be  glad  ?  Ah  !  no. 
Light  subjects  suit  not  grave  Pindaric  ode, 
Which  walks  in  metre  down  the  Strophic  road. 

But  let  the  sober  matron  wear 

Her  own  mechanic  sober  air  : 
A  h  me  I  ill  suits,  alas  I  the  sprightly  jig, 
Long  robes  of  ermine,  or  Sir  Cloudesley's  wig, 

Come,  placid  Dulness,  gently  come, 

And  all  my  faculties  benumb  ; 
Let  thought  turn  exile,  while  the  vacant  mind 
To  trickie  words  and  pretty  phrase  confined, 

Pumping  for  trim  description's  art, 

To  win  the  ear,  neglects  the  heart. 


*  Written  in  ridicule  of  the  Pindarics  of  Mason 


AN  ODE.  49 


So  shall  thy  sister  Taste's  peculiar  sons, 
Lineal  descendants  from  the  Goths  and  Huns 

Struck  with  the  true  arid  grand  sublime 

Of  Rhythm  converted  mm  rime, 
Court  the  quaint  innso.  and  con  her  lesson  o'er, 
When  sleep  the  sluggish  waves  hy  Granta's  shore: 

There  shall  each  poot  share  and  trim, 

Stretch,  cramp,  or  N>p  tho  verso's  lirnk 
While  rebel  WIT  beholds  them  with  disdain. 
And  Fancy  llies  aloft,  nor  heeds  their  servile  chain. 

n. 

O  Fancy,  bright  a.' rial  maid! 

When*  have  thy  vagrant  footsteps  strayed ? 

For,  ah!  I  mi>s  thee  'midst  thy  wonted  haunt 
Since  sileyt  now  the  enthusiastic  chauut, 

Which  erst  like  frenzy  roll'd  along, 

Driven  by  the  impel  IKMIS  tide  of  song  ; 
Rushing  secure  where  native  genius  bore, 
Not  cautious  coasting  by  the  shelving  shore. 

Hail  to  ili'-  MMH  of  modern  Rime, 

Mechanic  dealers  in  subliu 
Whose  lady  Mu>e  full  wantonly  is  drest, 
In  light  expression  quaint,  and  tinsel  vest, 

Where  swelling  epithets  are  laid 

(Art'>  inen'ectual  parade) 
As  varnish  on  the  cheek  of  harlot  light  ; 
The  rest  thin  sown  with  profit  or  delight, 

But  ill  compares  with  ancient  song, 

Where  Genius  pour'd  its  flood  along; 
Yet  such  is  Art's  presumptuous  idle  claim, 
She  marshals  out  the  way  to  modern  fame; 

From  Grecian  fable's  pompous  lore 

Description's  studied,  glittering  store, 
Smooth,  soothing  sounds,  and  sweet  alternate  rime, 
Clinking,  like  change  of  bells,  in  tingle  tangle  chime 

in. 

The  lark  shall  soar  in  every  Ode, 

With  flowers  of  light  description  strew'd  ; 

And  sweetly,  warbling  Philomel,  shall  flow 

Thy  soothing  sadness  in  mechanic?  woe. 
Trim  epithets  shall  spread  their  gloss, 
While  every  cell's  o'ergrowii  with  moss  •- 

4 


50  WRITTEN  DURING  A  PERIOD  OF  INSANITY. 

Here  oaks  shall  rise  in  chains  of  ivy  bound, 

There  smouldering  stones  o'erspread  the  rugged  ground. 

Here  forests  brown,  and  azure  hills, 

There  babbling  fonts,  and  prattling  rills  ; 
Here  some  gay  river  floats  in  crisped  streams, 
While  the  bright  sun  now  gilds  his  morning  beams, 

Or  sinking  on  his  Thetis'  breast, 

Drives  in  description  down  the  west, 

0  let  me  boast,  with  pride  becoming  skill, 

1  crown  the  summit  of  Parnassus'  hill : 
While  Taste  and  Genius  shall  dispense, 
And  sound  shall  triumph  over  sense  ; 

O'er  the  gay  mead  with  curious  steps  I'll  stray, 
And,  like  the  bee,  steal  all  the  sweets  away ; 

Extract  its  beauty,  and  its  power, 

From  every  new  poetic  flower, 
And  sweets  collected  may  a  wreath  compose, 
To  bind  the  poet's  brow,  or  please  the  critic's  nose. 


LINES  WRITTEN  DURING  A  PERIOD  OF  INSANITY 

HATRED  and  vengeance, — iny  eternal  portion 
Scarce  can  endure  delay  of  execution, — 
Wait  with  impatient  readiness  to  seize  my 

Soul  in  a  moment. 

Damn'd  below  Judas  ;  more  abhorr'd  than  he  was. 
Who  for  a  few  pence  sold  his  holy  Master ! 
Twice  betray'd,  Jesus  me,  the  last  delinquent, 

Deems  the  profanest. 

Man  disavows,  and  Deity  disowns  me, 
Hell  might  afford  my  miseries  a  shelter ; 
Therefore,  Hell  keeps  her  ever-hungry  mouths  all 

Bolted  against  me. 

Hard  lot !  encompassed  with  a  thousand  dangers, 
Weary,  faint,  trembling  with  a  thousand  terrors, 
I'm  call'd,  if  vanquish'd !  to  receive  a  sentence 

Worse  than  Abiram's- 

Him  the  vindictive  rod  of  angry  Justice 

Sent  quick  and  howling  to  the  centre  headlong  \ 

I,  fed  with  judgment,  in  a  fleshy  tomb,  am 

Buried  above  ground, 


ON  OBSERVING  SOME  NAMES  OF  LITTLE  NOTE.         51 

LINES  WRITTEN  DURING  THE  AUTHOR'S  SECOND 

PERIOD  OF  INSANITY. 

1774. 

HEU  !  quam  remotus  vescor  ab  omnibus 
Quibus  fruebar  sub  lare  patrio, 

Quam  nescius  jucuncla  quondam 
Arva,  domum,  socios,  reliqui, 
Et  p  raster  omnes  te  mini  flebilem, 
Te  chariorem  luce  vel  artubus, 
Te  vinculo  nostram  jugali 
Deserui  tremulam  sub  ense. 

Sed  nee  ferocem  me  genuit  pater, 
Nee  vagientein  nutriit  ubere 

Leaena  dumoso  sub  antro, 

Fata  sod  hoc  voluere  nostra. 
Et  fluctuosum  ceu  mare  volvitur, 
Dum  commovebar  mi  lie  tiinoribus, 

Coactus,  in  fauces  Averni, 

Totus  atro  peril  sub  ainne. 


ON    OBSERVING    SOME    NAMES    OF    LITTLE    NOTE 
RECORDED   IN   THE   BIOGRAPHIA  BRITANNICA.* 

OH,  fond  attempt  to  give  a  deathless  lot 

To  names  ignoble,  born  to  be  forgot ! 

In  vain  recorded  in  historic  page, 

They  court  the  notice  of  a  future  age : 

Those  twinkling,  tiny  lustres  of  the  land 

Drop  one  by  one  from  Fame's  neglecting  hand ; 

Lethaean  gulfs  receive  them  as  they  fall, 

And  dark  oblivion  soon  absorbs  them  all. 

So  wnen  a  child,  as  playful  children  use, 
Has  burnt  to  tinder  a  stale  last  year's  news, 
The  flame  extinct,  he  views  the  roving  fire- 
There  goes  my  lady,  and  there  goes  the  squire, 
There  goes  the  parson — O  illustrious  spark  ! 
And  there,  scarce  less  illustrious,  goes  the  clerk. 

Written  in  1780,  and  sent  to  the  Rev.  W.  Unwin  in  a  letter  dated  Sept.  3,  in  that  year 


S 2  OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


dMimj 


I.  WALKING  WITH  GOD.     Gen.  v,  24. 

OH  !  for  a  closer  walk  with  God, 
A  calm  and  heavenly  frame  ; 

A  light  to  shine  upon  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb  !  * 

Where  is  the  blessedness  I  knew 
When  first  I  saw  the  Lord  ? 

Where  is  the  soul-refreshing  view 
Of  Jesus  and  his  word  ? 

What  peaceful  hours  I  once  enjoyed  I 
How  sweet  their  memory  still ! 

But  they  have  left  an  aching  void, 
The  world  can  never  fill. 

Return,  O  holy  Dove,  return  ! 

Sweet  messenger  of  rest ! 
I  hate  the  sins  that  made  thee  mourn 

And  drove  thee  from  my  breast. 

The  dearest  idol  I  have  known, 

Whate'er  that  idol  be, 
Help  me  to  tear  it  from  thy  throne, 

And  worship  only  thee. 

So  shall  my  walk  be  close  with  God, 
Calm  and  serene  my  frame ; 

So  purer  light  shall  mark  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb. 


II.   JEHOVAH-JIREH.      THE   LORD   WILL   PROVIDE 

Gen.  xxii.  14. 

THE  saints  should  never  be  dismay'd, 

Nor  sink  in  hopeless  fear  ; 
For  when  they  least  expect  His  aid, 

The  Saviour  will  appear. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS.  5  3 


This  Abraham  found  :  he  raised  the  knife ; 

God  saw,  and  said,  "Forbear  ! 
Yon  ram  shall  yield  his  meaner  life  ; 

Behold  the  victim  there." 

Once  David  seem'd  Saul's  certain  prey; 

But  hark!  the  foe's  at  hand;* 
Saul  turns  his  arms  another  way, 

To  save  the  invaded  land. 

When  Jonah  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

He  thought  to  rise  no  more  ;f 
But  God  prepared  a  iish  to  save, 

And  bear  him  to  the  shore. 

Blest  proofs  of  power  and  grace  divine, 

That  meet  us  in  His  word  ! 
May  every  deep-felt  care  of  mine 

Be  trusted  with  the  Lord. 

Wait  for  His  seasonable  aid, 

And  though  it  tarry,  wait  : 
The  promise  may  be  long  dclay'd, 

But  cannot  come  too  late. 

III.      JEHOVAH-ROPHI.      I   AM   Til  K    LoRD   THAT   IlEALETH  THKK 

Exod.  \\ .  'Jii. 

HEAL  us,  Emmanuel !  here  we  are, 

Waiting  to  feel  Thy  touch  : 
Deep- wounded  souls  to  Thee  repair 

And,  Saviour,  we  are  such. 

Our  faith  is  feeble,  we  confess. 

We  faintly  trust  Thy  word  ; 
But  wilt  Thou  pity  us  the  less? 

Be  that  far  from  Thee,  Lord ! 

Remember  him  who  once  applied. 

With  trembling,  for  relief ; 
"Lord,  I  believe,"  with  tears  he  cried,! 

"Oh,  help  my  unbelief!' 

She  too,  who  touch'd  Thee  in  the  press, 

And  healing  virtue  stole, 
Was  answer'd,  "  Daughter,  go  in  peace, § 

Thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole." 


*  1  Sam.  xxiii.  27.  \  Jonah  i.  17. 

J  Mark  ix.  24,  §  Mark  v.  34. 


OLNEY  HYMNS. 


Conceal' d  amid  the  gathering  throng, 
She  would  have  shunn'd  Thy  view  ; 

And  if  her  faith  was  firm  and  strong, 
Had  strong  misgivings  too. 

Like  her,  with  hopes  and  fears  we  come, 

To  touch  Thoe,  if  we  may  ; 
Oh !  send  us  not  despairing  home, 

Send  none  unheal'd  away  ! 

IV.    JEHOVAH-NISSI.    THE  LORD  MY  BANNER. 

Exod.  xvii.  15. 

BY  whom  was  David  taught 

To  aim  the  deadly  blow, 
When  he  Goliath  fought, 

And  laid  the  Gittite  low  ? 
Nor  sword  nor  spear  the  stripling  took, 
But  chose  a  pebble  from  the  brook. 

'  Twas  Israel's  God  and  King 
Who  sent  him  to  the  fight ; 
Who  gave  him  strength  to  sling, 

And  skill  to  aim  arighx. 
Ye  feeble  saints,  your  strength  endures, 
Because  young  David's  God  is  yours. 

Who  order 'd  Gideon  forth, 

To  storm  the  invaders'  camp, 
With  arms  of  little  worth, 
A  pitcher  arid  a  lamp  ?  * 
The  trumpets  made  his  coming  Known 
And  all  the  host  was  overthrown. 

Oh  !  I  have  seen  the  day, 

When  with  a  single  word, 
God  helping  me  to  say, 

"  My  trust  is  in  the  Lord," 
My  soul  hath  quelFd  a  thousand  foes, 
Fearless  of  all  that  could  oppose. 

But  unbelief,  self-will, 

Self-righteousness,  and  pride, 
How  often  do  they  steal 

My  weapon  from  my  side ! 
Yet  David's  Lord,  arid  Gideon's  friend, 
Will  help  his  servant  to  the  end. 

*  Judges  vii.  16  and  20. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS.  5  5 


V.    JEHOVAH-SHALOM.    THE  LORD  SEND  PEACE. 

Judges  vi.  24. 

JESUS  !  whose  blood  so  freely  stream'd 

To  satisfy  the  law's  demand  ; 
By  Thee  from  guilt  and  wrath  redeem'd, 

Before  the  Father's  face  I  stand. 

To  reconcile  offending  man, 

Make  Justice  drop  her  angry  rod  ; 

What  creature  could  have  form'd  the  plan. 
Or  who  fulfil  it  but  a  God  ? 

No  drop  remains  of  all  the  curse, 

For  wretches  who  deserved  the  whole; 

No  arrows  dipt  in  wrath  to  pierce 
The  guilty,  but  returning  soul. 

Peace  by  such  means  so  dearly  bought, 
What  rebel  could  have  Imped  to  see? 

Peace,  by  his  injured  Sovereign  wrought, 
His  Sovereign  fasten'd  to  a  tree. 

Now,  Lord,  Thy  feeble  worm  prepare! 

For  strife  with  earth  and  hell  begins ; 
Confirm  and  gird  me  for  the  war ; 

They  hate  the  soul  that  hates  his  sins. 

Let  them  in  horrid  league  agree! 

They  may  assault,  they  may  distress  ; 
But  cannot  quench  Thy  love  to  me, 

Nor  rob  me  of  the  Lord  my  peace. 

VI.     WISDOM.     Prov.  viii.  22-31. 

"  ERE  God  had  built  the  mountains, 

Or  raised  the  fruitful  hills  ; 
Before  he  filPd  the  fountains 

That  feed  the  running  rills  ; 
In  me  from  everlasting, 

The  wonderful  I  AM, 
Found  pleasures  never  wasting, 

And  WISDOM  is  my  name. 

11  When,  like  a  tent  to  dwell  in, 
He  spread  the  skies  abroad. 
And  swathed  about  the  swelling 
Of  Ocean's  mighty  flood  ; 


s6  OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


He  wrought  by  weight  and  measure, 

And  I  was  with  Him  then  : 
Myself  the  Father's  pleasure, 

And  mine,  the  sons  of  men." 

Thus  Wisdom's  words  discover 

Thy  glory  and  Thy  grace, 
Thou  everlasting  lover 

Of  our  unworthy  race ! 
Thy  gracious  eye  survey'd  us 

Ere  stars  were  seen  above ; 
In  wisdom  thou  hast  made  us, 

And  died  for  us  in  love. 

And  couldst  thou  be  delighted 

With  creatures  such  as  we, 
Who,  when  we  saw  Thee,  slighted, 

And  nail'd  Thee  to  a  tree  ? 
Unfathomable  wonder, 

And  mystery  divine ! 
The  voice  that  speaks  in  thunder, 

Says,  "  Sinner,  I  am  thine  ! ' 

VII.  VANITY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

GOD  gives  His  mercies  to  be  spent ; 

Your  hoard  will  do  your  soul  no  good 
Gold  is  a  blessing  only  lent, 

Repaid  by  giving  others  food. 

The  world's  esteem  is  but  a  bribe, 

To  buy  their  peace  you  sell  your  own  ; 

The  slave  of  a  vainglorious  tribe, 

Who  hate  you  while  they  make  you  known, 

The  joy  that  vain  amusements  give, 
Oh  !  sad  conclusion  that  it  brings  ! 

The  honey  of  a  crowded  hive, 
Defended  by  a  thousand  stings. 

'Tis  thus  the  world  rewards  the  fools 
That  live  upon  her  treacherous  smiles : 

She  leads  them  blindfold  by  her  rules, 
And  ruins  all  whom  she  beguiles. 

God  knows  the  thousands  who  go  down 
From  pleasure  into  endless  woe  ; 

And  with  a  long  despairing  groan 
Blaspheme  their  Maker  as  they  go. 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  57 


Oh  fearful  thought!  be  timely  wise  ; 

Delight  but  in  a  Saviour's  charms, 
And  God  shall  take  you  to  the  skies. 

Embraced  in  everlasting  arms. 

O  LORD,  I  WILL  PRAISE  THEE.    Isaiah  xii.  1. 

I  WILL  praise  Thee  every  day 
Now  Thine  anger's  turn'd  away ; 
Comfortable  thoughts  arise 
From  the  bleeding  sacrifice. 

Here,  in  the  fair  gospel-field, 
Wells  of  free  salvation  yield 
Streams  of  life,  a  plenteous  store, 
A.nd  my  soul  shall  thirst  no  more. 

Jesus  is  become  at  length 
My  salvation  and  my  strength  ; 
And  His  praises  shall  prolon. 
While  I  live,  my  pleasant  s<>nu. 

Praise  ye,  then,  His  glorious  name, 

Publish  His  exalted  fame! 

Still  His  worth  your  praise  exceeds  ; 

Excellent  are  all  His  deed-. 

Raise  again  the  joyful  sound. 
Let  the  nations  roll  it  round  ! 
Zion,  shout!  for  this  is  He  ; 
God  the  Saviour  dwells  in  thee. 

IX.  THE  CONTRITE  HEART.     Isaiah  Ivii.  15. 

THE  Lord  will  happiness  divine 

On  contrite  hearts  bestow  ; 
Then  tell  me,  gracious  God,  is  mine 

A  contrite  heart  or  no  ? 

I  hear,  but  seem  to  hear  in  vain, 

Insensible  as  steel ; 
If  aught  is  felt,  'tis  only  pain, 

To  find  I  cannot  feel. 

I  sometimes  think  myself  inclined 
To  love  Thee  if  I  could ; 

often  feel  another  mind, 
Averse  to  all  that's  good. 


OLNEY  HYMNS. 


My  best  desires  are  faint  and  few, 
I  fain  would  strive  for  more  ; 

But  when  I  cry,  "  My  strength  renew  ! ' 
Seem  weaker  than  before. 

Thy  saints  are  comforted,  I  know, 
And  love  Thy  house  of  prayer  ; 

I  therefore  go  where  others  go, 
But  find  no  comfort  there. 

Oh  make  this  heart  rejoice  or  ache  ; 

Decide  this  doubt  for  me  ; 
And  if  it  be  not  broken,  break — 

And  heal  it,  if  it  be. 


X.  THE  FUTURE  PEACE  AND  GLORY  OF  THE  CHURCH. 

Isaiah  Ix.  15-20. 

HEAR  what  God  the  Lord  hath  spoken, 
"  O  my  people,  faint  and  few, 
Comfortless,  afflicted,  broken, 
Fair  abodes  I  build  for  you. 
Thorns  of  heartfelt  tribulation 
Shall  no  more  perplex  your  ways  : 
You  shall  name  your  walls,  Salvation, 
And  your  gates  shall  all  be  Praise. 

"  There,  like  streams  that  feed  the  garden, 
Pleasures  without  end  shall  flow, 
For  the  Lord,  your  faith  rewarding, 
All  His  bounty  shall  bestow  ; 
Still  in  undisturb'd  possession 
Peace  and  righteousness  shall  reign ; 
Never  shall  you  feel  oppression, 
Hear  the  voice  of  war  again. 

"  Ye  no  more  your  suns  descending, 
Waning  moons  no  more  shall  see  ; 
But  your  griefs  forever  ending, 
Find  eternal  noon  in  me  : 
God  shall  rise,  and  shining  o'er  ye, 
Change  to  day  the  gloom  of  night ; 
He,  the  Lord,  shall  be  your  glory, 
God  your  everlasting  light." 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  59 


XI.  JEHOVAH  OUR  RIGHTEOUSNESS.    Jer.  xxiii.  6. 

MY  God,  how  perfect  are  Thy  ways  ! 

But  mine  polluted  are  ; 
Sin  twines  itself  about  my  praise, 

And  slides  into  my  prayer. 

When  I  would  speak  what  Thou  hast  done 

To  save  me  from  my  sin, 
I  cannot  make  Thy  mercies  known, 

But  self-applause  creeps  in. 

Divine  desire,  that  holy  flame 

Thy  grace  creates  in  me  ; 
Alas !  impatience  is  its  name, 

When  it  returns  to  Thee. 

This  heart,  a  fountain  of  vile  thoughts, 

How  does  it  overflow, 
While  self  upon  the  surface  floats, 

Still  bubbling  from  below. 

Let  others  in  the  gaudy  dress 

Of  fancied  merit  shine ; 
The  Lord  shall  be  my  righteousness, 

The  Lord  forever  mine. 


XII.  EPHRAIM  REPEXTIXG.     Jer.  xxxi.  18-20. 

MY  God,  till  I  received  Thy  stroke, 

How  like  a  beast  was  I ! 
So  unaccustonf  d  to  the  yoke, 

So  backward  to  comply. 

With  grief  my  just  reproach  I  bear ; 

Shame  fills  me  at  the  thought, 
How  frequent  my  rebellions  were, 

What  wickedness  I  wrought. 

Thy  merciful  restraint  I  scorn'd, 

And  left  the  pleasant  road  ; 
Yet  turn  me,  and  I  shall  be  turn'd  ; 

Thou  art  the  Lord  my  God. 

"  Is  Ephraim  banish' d  from  my  thoughts, 

Or  vile  in  my  esteem  ? 
No,"  saith  the  Lord,  "  with  all  his  faults, 

I  still  remember  him. 


60  OLNEY  HYMNS. 

"  Is  he  a  dear  and  pleasant  child  ? 

Yes,  dear  and  pleasant  still  ; 
Though  sin  his  foolish  heart  beguiled, 

And  he  withstood  my  will. 

"  My  sharp  rebuke  has  laid  him  low, 
He  seeks  my  face  again  ; 

My  pity  kindles  at  his  woe, 
He  shall  not  seek  in  vain." 


XIII.  THE  COVENANT.    Ezek.  xxxvi.  25-28. 

THE  Lord  proclaims  His  grace  abroad  ! 

"  Behold,  I  change  your  hearts  of  stone ; 
Each  shall  renounce  his  idol-god, 

And  serve,  henceforth,  the  Lord  alone. 

"  My  grace,  a  flowing  stream,  proceeds 

To  wash  your  filthiness  away  ; 
Ye  shall  abhor  your  former  deeds, 

And  learn  my  statutes  to  obey. 

•'  My  truth  the  great  design  ensures, 

I  give  myself  away  to  you  ; 
You  shall  be  mine,  I  will  be  yours, 

Your  Grod  unalterably  true. 

"  Yet  not  unsought  or  unimplored, 
The  plenteous  grace  I  shall  confer  ;  * 

No — your  whole  hearts  shall  seek  the  Lord, 
I'll  put  a  praying  spirit  there. 

' '  From  the  first  breath  of  life  divine 

Down  to  the  last  expiring  hour, 
The  gracious  work  shall  all  be  mine, 

Begun  and  ended  in  my  power." 


XIV.  JEHOVAH-SHAMMAH.    Ezek.  xlviii.  35. 

As  birds  their  infant  brood  protect,f 
And  spread  their  wings  to  shelter  them, 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  to  His  elect, 
"  So  will  I  guard  Jerusalem." 

*  Ezek.  xxxvi.  37.  *  Isaiah  xxx. 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  61 


And  what  then  is  Jerusalem, 
This  darling  object  of  His  cave  ? 

Where  is  its  worth  in  God's  esteem  ? 
Who  built  it  ?  who  inhabits  there  ? 

Jehovah  founded  it  in  blood, 
The  blood  of  His  incarnate  Son  ; 

There  dwell  the  saints,  once  foes  to  God 
The  sinners  whom  He  calls  His  own. 

There,  though  besieged  on  every  side, 
Yet  much  beloved  and  guarded  well, 

Prom  age  to  age  they  have  defied 
The  utmost  force  of  earth  and  hell. 

Let  earth  repent,  and  hell  despair, 

This  city  has  a  sure  defence  ; 
Her  name  is  call'd,  "  The  Lord  is  there/' 

And  who  has  power  to  drive  Him  thence  ? 


XV.  PRAISE  FOR  THE  FOUNTAIN  OPENED.    Zech.  xiii.  1. 

THERE  is  a  fountain  fill'd  with  blood, 

Drawn  from  Emmanuel's  veins  ; 
And  sinners,  plunged  beneath  that  flood, 

Lose  all  their  guilty  stains. 

The  dying  thief  rejoiced  to  see 

That  fountain  in  his  day  ; 
And  there  have  I,  as  vile  as  he, 

Wash'd  all  my  sins  away. 

Dear  dying  Lamb,  Thy  precious  blood 

Shall  never  lose  its  power, 
Till  all  the  ransom'd  church  of  God 

Be  saved,  to  sin  no  more. 

E'er  since,  by  faith,  I  saw  the  stream 

Thy  flowing  wounds  supply, 
Redeeming  love  has  been  my  theme, 

And  shall  be  till  I  die. 

Then  in  a  nobler,  sweeter  song, 

I'll  sing  Thy  power  to  save  ; 
When  this  poor  lisping  stammering  tongue 

Lies  silent  in  the  grave. 


62  OLNEY  HYMNS. 

Lord,  I  believe  Thou  hast  prepared 

(Unworthy  thou  I  be) 
For  me  a  blood-bought  free  reward, 

A  golden  harp  for  me  ! 

'Tis  strung  and  tuned  for  endless  years, 
And  form'd  by  power  divine, 

To  sound  in  God  the  Father's  ears 
No  other  name  but  Thine. 

XVI.  THE  SOWER.     Matt.  xiii.  3. 

YE  sons  of  earth  prepare  the  plough, 
Break  up  your  fallow  ground  ; 

The  sower  is  gone  forth  to  sow, 
And  scatter  blessings  round. 

The  seed  that  finds  a  stony  soil 
Shoots  forth  a  hasty  blade  ; 

But  ill  repays  the  sower's  toil, 
Soon  wither'd,  scorch'd,  and  dead. 

The  thorny  ground  is  sure  to  balk 

All  hopes  of  harvest  there  ; 
We  find  a  tall  and  sickly  stalk, 

But  not  the  fruitful  ear. 

The  beaten  path  and  highway  side, 

Receive  the  trust  in  vain  ; 
The  watchful  birds  the  spoil  divide, 

And  pick  up  all  the  grain. 

But  where  the  Lord  of  grace  and  powei 
Has  bless'd  the  happy  field, 

How  plenteous  is  the  golden  store 
The  deep- wrought  furrows  yield  ! 

Father  of  mercies,  we  have  need 

Of  Thy  preparing  grace  ; 
Let  the  same  Hand  that  gives  the  seed 

Provide  a  fruitful  place  ! 

XVII.  THE  HOUSE  OF  PRAYER.  Mark  x    17. 

THY  mansion  is  the  Christian's  heart, 
O  Lord,  Thy  dwelling  place  secure  ! 

Bid  the  unruly  throng  depart, 
And  leave  the  consecrated  door. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


Devoted  as  it  is  to  Thee, 

A  thievish  swarm  frequents  the  place  , 
They  steal  away  my  joys  from  me, 

And  rob  my  Saviour  of  His  praise. 

There,  too,  a  sharp  designing  trade 
Sin,  Satan,  and  the  World  maintain  ; 

Nor  cease  to  press  me,  and  persuade 
To  part  with  ease,  and  purchase  pain. 

I  know  them,  and  I  hate  theJr  din  ; 

And  weary  of  the  bustling  crowd  ; 
But  while  their  voice  is  heard  within, 

I  cannot  serve  Thee  as  I  would. 

Oh  !  for  the  joy  thy  presence  give, 
What  peace  shall  reign  when  Thou  art 

Thy  presence  makes  this  den  of  thieves 
A  calm  delightful  house  of  prayer. 

And  if  Thou  make  Thy  tcmplo  shine, 

Yet  self-abased,  will  I  adore  ; 
The  gold  and  silver  are  not  mine  ; 

I  give  Thee  what  was  Thine  before. 

XVIII.    LOVKST  THOU  ME  ?    John  xxi.  16- 

HARK,  my  soul !  it  is  the  Lord  ; 
'Tis  Thy  Saviour,  hear  His  word  ; 
Jesus  speaks  and  speaks  to  thee, 
Say  poor  sinner,  lovest  thou  me  ? 


. . 


"  I  deliver'd  thee  when  bound, 
And  when  bleeding,  heal'd  thy  wound 
Sought  thee  wandering,  sat  thee  right, 
Turn'd  thy  darkness  into  light. 

"  Can  a  woman's  tender  care 
Cease  towards  the  child  she  bare  ? 
Yes,  she  may  forgetful  be, 
Yet  will  I  remember  thee. 

*'  Mine  is  an  unchanging  love, 
Higher  than  the  heights  above, 
Deeper  than  the  depths  beneath, 
Free  and  faithful,  strong  as  death. 


64  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


"  Thou  shalt  see  my  glory  soon, 
When  the  work  of  grace  is  done ; 
Partner  of  my  throne  shalt  be  ; 
Say,  poor  sinner,  lovest  thou  me  ?  " 

Lord  it  is  my  chief  complaint, 
That  my  love  is  weak  and  faint ; 
Yet  I  love  Thee  and  adore, — 
Oh  !  for  grace  to  love  Thee  more  ! 

XIX.  CONTENTMENT.    Phil.  iv.  11. 

FIERCE  passions  discompose  the  mine, 

As  tempests  vex  the  sea  } 
But  calm  content  and  peace  we  find, 

When,  Lord,  we  turn  to  Thee. 

In  vain  by  reason  and  by  rule 

We  try  to  bend  the  will ; 
For  none  but  in  the  Saviour's  school 

Can  learn  the  heavenly  skill. 

Since  at  His  feet  my  soul  has  sate, 

His  gracious  words  to  hear, 
Contented  with  my  present  state, 

I  cast  on  Him  my  care. 

"  Art  thou  a  sinner,  soul  ?  '    He  said, 
"  Then  how  canst  thou  complain  ? 

How  light  thy  troubles  here,  if  weigh'd 
With  everlasting  pain ! 

"  If  thou  of  murmuring  wouldst  be  cured, 
Compare  thy  griefs  with  mine  ; 

Think  what  my  love  for  thee  endured, 
And  thou  wilt  not  repine. 

"  'Tis  I  appoint  thy  daily  lot. 

And  I  do  all  things  well ; 
Thou  soon  shalt  leave  this  wretched  spot, 

And  rise  with  me  to  dwell. 

"  In  life  my  grace  shall  strength  supply, 

Proportion'd  to  thy  day  ; 
At  death  thou  [still]  shalt  find  me  nigh, 

To  wipe  thy  tears  away." 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  65 


Thus  I,  who  once  my  wretched  days 

In  vain  repinings  spent, 
Taught  in  my  Saviour's  school  of  grace, 

Have  learnt  to  be  content 


XX.  OLD  TESTAMENT  GOSPEL.     Heb.  iv.  2. 


ISRAEL  in  ancient  days 
Not  only  had  a  view 
Of  Sinai  in  a  blaze, 

But  learn'd  the  Gospel  too  ; 
The  types  and  figures  were  a  glu--. 
In  which  they  saw  a  Saviour's  face. 

The  paschal  sacrifice 

And  blood-besprinkled  door,* 
Seen  with  enlighten'd  eyes, 

And  once  applied  with  power, 
Would  teach  the  need  of  other  blood, 
To  reconcile  an  angry  God. 

The  Lamb,  the  Dove,  set  forth 

His  portVrt  innocence, f 
Whose  blood  of  matchless  worth 

Should  be  the  soul's  defence  ; 
For  lie  who  can  for  sin  atone, 
Must  have  no  failings  of  His  own. 

The  scape-goat  on  his  head  J 
The  people's  trespass  bore, 
And  to  the  desert  led, 

Was  to  be  seen  no  more : 
In  him  our  surety  seeiu'd  to  say, 
"  Behold,  I  bear  your  sins  away." 

Dipt  in  his  fellow's  blood, 

The  living  bird  went  free  ;  § 
The  type,  well  understood, 

Express'd  the  sinner's  plea  ; 
Described  a  guilty  soul  enlarged, 
Arid  by  a  Saviour's  death  discharged. 

*  Exod.  xii.  13.  f  Lev.  xii.  6.  $Lev.  xvi.  21.  §  Lev.  xiv.  51.  53, 


66  OLNEY  HYMNS. 

Jesus,  I  love  to  trace, 

Throughout  the  sacred  page, 
The  footsteps  of  Thy  grace, 

The  same  in  every  age  ! 
Oh  grant  that  I  may  faithful  be 
To  clearer  light  vouchsafed  to  me ! 

XXI.  SARDIS.     Rev.  iii.  1-6. 

"  WRITE  to  Sardis,"  saith  the  Lord, 

"  And  write  what  He  declares, 
He  whose  Spirit,  and  whose  word, 

Upholds  the  seven  stars : 
All  thy  works  and  ways  I  search, 

Find  thy  zeal  and  love  decay'd  ; 
Thou  art  call'd  a  living  church, 

But  thou  art  cold  and  dead. 

"  Watch,  remember,  seek,  and  strive, 

Exert  thy  former  pains  ; 
Let  thy  timely  care  revive, 

And  strengthen  what  remains  ; 
Cleanse  thine  heart,  thy  works  amend 

Former  times  to  mind  recall, 
Lest  my  sudden  stroke  descend, 

And  smite  thee  once  for  all. 

' '  Yet  I  number  now  in  thee 

A  few  that  are  upright ; 
These  my  Father's  face  shall  see, 

And  walk  with  me  in  white. 
When  in  judgment  I  appear, 

They  for  mine  shall  be  confess'd ; 
Let  my  faithful  servants  hear, — 

And  woe  be  to  the  rest !  ' 

XXII.  PRAYER  FOR  CHILDREN. 

BESTOW,  dear  Lord,  upon  our  youth. 

The  gift  of  saving  grace  ; 
And  let  the  seed  of  sacred  truth 

Fall  in  a  fruitful  place. 

Grace  is  a  plant,  where'er  it  grows, 
Of  pure  and  heavenly  root ; 

But  fairest  in  the  youngest  shows, 
And  yields  the  sweetest  fruit. 


OLNE  Y  H  YMNS.  6  7 


Ye  careless  ones,  O  hear  betimes 

The  voice  of  sovereign  love  ! 
Your  youth  is  stain'd  with  many  crimes, 

But  mercy  reigns  above. 

True,  you  are  young,  but  there's  a  stone 
Within  the  youngest  breast ; 

Or  half  the  crimes  which  you  have  done 
Would  rob  you  of  your  rest. 

For  you  the  public  prayer  is  made  ; 

Oh!  join  the  public  prayer! 
For  you  the  secret  tear  is  shed : 

Oh  shed  yourselves  a  tear  ! 

We  pray  that  you  may  early  prove 
The  Spirit's  power  to  teach  ; 

You  cannot  be  too  young  to  love 
That  Jesus  whom  we  preach. 


XXIII.  PLEADING  FOR  AND  WITH  YOUTH. 


has  undone  our  wretched  race  j 
But  Jesus  has  restored, 
And  brought  tho  sinner  face  to  face 
With  his  forgh'ing  Lord. 

This  we  repeat  from  year  to  year, 
And  press  upon  our  youth  ; 

Lord,  give  them  an  attentive  ear, 
Lord,  save  them  by  Thy  truth  ! 

Blessings  upon  the  rising  race  ! 

Make  this  a  happy  hour, 
According  to  Thy  richest  grace, 

And  thine  Almighty  power. 

We  feel  for  your  unhappy  state 

(May  you  regard  it  too), 
And  would  a  while  ourselves  forget 

To  pour  out  prayer  for  you. 

We  see,  though  you  perceive  it  not, 
The  approaching  awful  doom  ; 

Oh  tremble  at  the  solemn  thought, 
And  flee  the  wrath  to  come  I 


68  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


Dear  Saviour,  let  this  new-born  year 
Spread  an  alarm  abroad  ; 

And  cry  in  every  careless  ear, 
"  Prepare  to  meet  thy  God  !  " 


XXIV.  PRATER  FOR  CHILDREN. 

GRACIOUS  Lord,  our  children  see, 
By  Thy  mercy  we  are  free  ; 
But  shall  these,  alas  !  remain 
Subjects  still  of  Satan's  reign  ? 
Israel's  young  ones,  when  of  old 
Pharaoh  threaten 'd  to  withhold,* 
Then  Thy  messenger  said,  "  No  ; 
Let  the  children  also  go  !  " 

When  the  angel  of  the  Lord, 
Drawing  forth  his  dreadful  sword, 
Slew  with  an  avenging  hand, 
All  the  first-born  of  the  land  ;  f 
Then  Thy  people's  doors  he  pass'd, 
Where  the  bloody  sign  was  placed  : 
Hear  us,  now,  upon  our  knees, 
Plead  the  blood  of  Christ  for  these ! 

Lord,  we  tremble,  for  we  know 
How  the  fierce  malicious  foe, 
Wheeling  round  his  watchful  flight, 
Keeps  them  ever  in  his  sight : 
Spread  Thy  pinions,  King  of  kings ! 
Hide  them  safe  beneath  Thy  wings  ; 
Lest  the  ravenous  bird  of  prey 
Stoop  and  bear  the  brood  away. 

XXV.  JEHOVAH  JESUS. 

MY  song  shall  bless  the  Lord  of  all, 
My  praise  shall  climb  to  His  abode  ; 

Thee,  Saviour,  by  that  name  I  call, 
The  great  Supreme,  the  mighty  God. 

Without  beginning  or  decline, 
Object  of  faith  and  not  of  sense  ; 

Eternal  ages  saw  Him  shine, 
He  shines  eternal  ages  hence. 

*  Exod.  x.  9.  f  Exod.  xii.  12. 


OL  NE  Y  HYMNS.  69 

As  much  when  in  the  manger  laid, 

Almighty  Ruler  of  the  sky, 
As  when  the  six  days'  work  He  made, 

Fill'd  all  the  morning  stars  with  joy. 

Of  all  the  crowns  Jehovah  bears, 

Salvation  is  His  dearest  claim  ; 
That  gracious  sound  well  pleased  He  hears 

And  owns  Emmanuel  for  His  name. 

A  cheerful  confidence  I  feel, 

My  well  placed  hopes  with  joy  I  see ; 
My  bosom  glows  with  heavenly  zeal, 

To  worship  Him  who  died  for  me. 

As  man  He  pities  my  complaint, 

His  power  and  truth  are  all  divine  ; 
He  will  not  fail,  He  cannot  faint ; 

Salvation's  sure,  and  must  be  mine. 


XXVI.  ON  OPENING  A  Pi,.\< -K  FOR  SOCIAL  PRAYER. 

JESUS!  where'er  Thy  p<M.pl«>  meet,  X 

There  they  behold  Thy  im-ivy  seat ; 
Where'er  they  s«M«k  Thee,  Thou  art  found, 
And  every  place  is  hallow'd  ground. 

For  Thou,  within  no  walls  confined, 
Inhabitest  the  humbl<»  mind  ; 
Such  ever  bring  Thee  where  they  come 
And  going,  take  Thee  to  their  home. 

Dear  Shepherd  of  Thy  chosen  few ! 
Thy  former  mercies  here  renew  ; 
Here  to  our  waiting  hearts  proclaim 
The  sweetness  of  Thy  saving  name. 

Here  may  we  prove  the  power  of  prayer, 
To  strengthen  faith,  and  sweeten  care  ; 
To  teach  our  faint  desires  to  rise, 
And  bring  all  Heaven  before  our  eyes. 

Behold,  at  Thy  commanding  word 
We  stretch  the  curtain  and  the  cord  ;  * 
Come  Thou,  and  fill  this  wider  space, 
And  bless  us  with  a  large  increase. 

*  Isaiah  liv.  2. 


7  o  OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


Lord,  we  are  few,  but  Thou  art  near : 
Nor  short  Thine  arm,  nor  deaf  Thine  ear  ; 
Oh  rend  the  heavens,  come  quickly  down, 
And  make  a  thousand  hearts  Thine  own. 

XXVII.  WELCOME  TO  THE  TABLE. 

THIS  is  the  feast  of  heavenly  wine, 

And  God  invites  to  sup  ; 
The  juices  of  the  living  Vine 

Were  press'd  to  fill  the  cup. 

Oh  I  bless  the  Saviour,  ye  that  eat, 

With  royal  dainties  fed  ; 
Not  heaven  affords  a  costlier  treat, 

For  Jesus  is  the  bread. 

The  vile,  the  lost,  He  calls  to  them  ; 

Ye  trembling  souls,  appear ! 
The  righteous  in  their  own  esteem 

Have  no  acceptance  here. 

Approach,  ye  poor,  nor  dare  refuse 
The  banquet  spread  for  you  ; 

Dear  Saviour,  this  is  welcome  news, 
Then  I  may  venture  too. 

If  guilt  and  sin  afford  a  plea, 

And  may  obtain  a  place, 
Surely  the  Lord  will  welcome  me, 

And  I  shall  see  his  face. 

XXVIII.  JESUS  HASTING  TO  SUFFER. 

THE  Saviour,  what  a  noble  flame 

Was  kindled  in  his  breast, 
When  hasting  to  Jerusalem, 

He  rnarch'd  before  the  rest. 

Good  will  to  men,  and  zeal  for  God, 

His  every  thought  engross ; 
He  longs  to  be  baptized  with  blood,* 

He  pants  to  reach  the  cross  ! 

With  all  His  suffering  full  in  view, 

And  woes  to  us  unknown, 
Forth  to  the  task  His  spirit  flew, 

'Twas  love  that  urged  Him  on. 

*  Luke  xii.  50. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS.  71 


Lord,  we  return  Thee  what  we  can : 
Our  hearts  shall  sound  abroad, 

Salvation  to  the  dying  Man, 
And  to  the  rising  God ! 

And  while  Thy  bleeding  glories  here 

Engage  our  wondering  eyes, 
We  learn  our  lighter  cross  to  bear, 

And  hasten  to  the  skies. 

XXIX.  EXHORTATION  TO  PRATER. 

WHAT  various  hindrances  we  meet 

In  coming  to  a  mercy  sear  I 

Yet  who  that  knows  the  worth  of  prayer, 

But  wishes  to  be  often  there  ? 

Prayer  makes  the  darken'd  cloud  withdraw, 
Prayer  climbs  the  ladder  Jacob  saw, 
Gives  exercise  to  faith  and  love, 
Brings  every  blessing  from  above. 

Restraining  prayer,  we  cease  to  fight ; 
Prayer  makes  the  Christian's  armor  bright ; 
And  Satan  trembles  when  he  sees 
The  weakest  saint  upon  his  knees. 

While  Moses  stood  with  arms  spread  wide, 
Success  was  found  on  Israel's  side  ; 
But  when  through  weariness  they  fail'd, 
That  moment  Amalek  prevail'd.* 

Have  you  no  words  ?    Ah,  think  again, 
Words  flow  apace  when  you  complain, 
And  fill  your  fellow-creature's  ear 
With  the  sad  tale  of  all  your  care. 

Were  half  the  breath  thus  vainly  spent 
To  heaven  in  supplication  sent, 
Your  cheerful  song  would  oftener  be, 
"  Hear  what  the  Lord  has  done  for  me." 

XXX.  THE  LIGHT  AND  GLORY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

THE  Spirit  breathes  upon  the  word, 

And  brings  the  truth  to  sight ; 
Precepts  and  promises  afford 

A  sanctifying  light. 

*  Exodus  xvii.  11, 12. 


72  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


A  glory  gilds  the  sacred  page, 

Majestic  like  the  sun  ; 
It  gives  a  light  to  every  age, 

It  gives,  but  borrows  none. 

The  hand  that  gave  it  still  supplies 
The  gracious  light  and  heat ; 

His  truths  upon  the  nations  rise, 
They  rise,  but  never  set. 

Let  everlasting  thanks  be  thine, 
For  such  a  bright  display, 

As  makes  a  world  of  darkness  shine 
With  beams  of  heavenly  day. 

My  soul  rejoices  to  pursue 

The  steps  of  Him  I  love, 
Till  glory  break  upon  my  view 

In  brighter  worlds  above. 

XXXI.  ON  THE  DEATH  OP  A  MINISTER. 

His  master  taken  from  his  head, 

Elisha  saw  him  go  ; 
And  in  desponding  accents  said, 

"  Ah,  what  must  Israel  do?" 

But  he  forgot  the  Lord  who  lifts 

The  beggar  to  the  throne ; 
Nor  knew  that  all  Elijah's  gifts 

Would  soon  be  made  his  own. 

What !  when  a  Paul  has  run  his  course,' 

Or  when  Apollos  dies, 
Is  Israel  left  without  resource, 

And  have  we  no  supplies  ? 

Yes,  while  the  dear  Redeemer  lives, 

We  have  a  boundless  store, 
And  shall  be  fed  with  what  He  gives, 

Who  lives  for  evermore, 

XXXII.  THE  SHINING  LIGHT. 

MY  former  hopes  are  fled, 

My  terror  now  begins  ; 
I  feel,  alas !  that  I  am  dead 

In  trespasses  and  sins. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS.  ^  3 


Ah,  whither  shall  I  fly? 

I  hear  the  thunder  roar  ; 
The  Law  proclaims  Destruction  nigh. 

And  Vengeance  at  the  door. 

When  I  review  my  ways, 

I  dread  impending  doom  : 
But  sure  a  friendly  whisper  says, 

"  Flee  from  the  wrath  to  conic." 

I  see,  or  think  I  see, 

A  glimmering  from  afar  ; 
A  beam  of  day,  that  shines  for  me. 

To  save  me  from  despair. 

Forerunner  of  the  sun,* 

It  marks  the  pilgrim's  way  ; 

I'll  gaze  upon  it  while  I  run, 
And  watch  the  rising  day. 

XXXIII.  THE  WAITING  SOUL. 

BREATHE  from  the  gentle  south,  O  Lord, 
And  cheer  me  from  the  north  ; 

Blow  on  the  treasures  of  thy  word, 
And  call  the  spices  forth  1 

I  wish,  Thou  knowest,  to  be  resign'd, 
And  wait  with  patient  hope  ; 

But  hope  delay'd  fatigues  the  mind, 
And  drinks  the  spirits  up. 

Help  me  to  reach  the  distant  goal ; 

Confirm  my  feeble  knee  ; 
Pity  the  sickness  of  a  soul 

That  faints  for  love  of  Thee  ! 

Cold  as  I  feel  this  heart  of  mine, 

Yet,  since  I  feel  it  so, 
It  yields  some  hope  of  life  divine 

Within,  however  low. 

I  seem  forsaken  and  alone, 

I  hear  the  lion  roar ; 
And  every  door  is  shut  but  one, 

And  that  is  Mercy's  door, 


*  Psalm  cxxx.  6 


7  4  OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


There,  till  the  dear  Deliverer  come, 
I'll  wait  with  humble  prayer ; 

And  when  He  calls  His  exile  home, 
The  Lord  shall  find  him  there. 

XXXIV.  SEEKING  THE  BELOVED. 

To  those  who  love  the  Lord  I  speak ; 

Is  my  Beloved  near  ? 
The  Bridegroom  of  my  soul  I  seek, 

Oh  1  when  will  He  appear  ? 

Though  once  a  man  of  grief  and  shame, 

Yet  now  He  fills  a  throne, 
And  bears  the  greatest,  sweetest  name, 

That  earth  or  heaven  have  known, 

Grace  flies  before,  and  love  attends 

His  steps  where'er  he  goes  ; 
Though  none  can  see  Him  but  His  friends, 

And  they  were  once  his  foes. 

He  speaks ; — obedient  to  His  call 

Our  warm  affections  move : 
Did  He  but  shine  alike  on  all. 

Then  all  alike  would  love. 

Then  love  in  every  heart  would  reign, 
And  war  would  cease  to  roar ; 

And  cruel  and  bloodthirsty  men 
Would  thirst  for  blood  no  more. 

Such  Jesus  is,  and  such  His  grace ; 

Oh,  may  He  shine  on  you  ! 
And  tell  him,  when  you  see  His  face, 

I  long  to  see  Him  too.* 


XXXV.  WELCOME  CROSS. 

'Tis  my  happiness  below 

Not  to  live  without  the  cross, 

But  the  Saviour's  power  to  know, 
Sanctifying  every  loss : 

*  Cant.  v.  8. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS.  75 


Trials  must  and  will  befall ; 

But  with  humble  faith  to  see 
Love  inscribed  upon  them  all, 

This  is  happiness  to  me. 

God  in  Israel  sows  the  seeds 

Of  affliction,  pain,  and  toil ; 
These  spring  up  and  choke  the  weeds 

Which  would  else  o'erspread  the  soil : 
Trials  make  the  promise  sweet, 

Trials  give  new  life  to  prayer ; 
Trials  bring  me  to  His  feet, 

Lay  me  low,  and  keep  me  there. 

Did  I  meet  no  trials  here, 

No  chastisement  by  the  way, 
Might  I  not  witfc  reason  fear 

I  should  prove  a  castaway  ? 
Bastards  may  escape  the  rod,* 

Sunk  in  earthly  vain  delight ; 
But  the  true-born  child  of  God 

Must  not — would  not,  if  he  might. 

XXXVI.  AFFLICTIONS  SANCTIFIED  BY  THE  WORD. 

On  how  I  love  Thy  holy  Word, 
Thy  gracious  covenant,  O  Lord  ! 
It  guides  me  in  the  peaceful  way  ; 
I  think  upon  it  all  the  day. 

What  are  the  mines  of  shining  wealth, 
The  strength  of  youth,  the  bloom  of  health ! 
What  are  all  joys  compared  with  those 
Thine  everlasting  Word  bestows  1 

Long  unafflicted,  undismayed, 
In  pleasure's  path  secure  I  stray 'd  ; 
Thou  mad'st  me  feel  thy  chast'ning  rod,f 
And  straight  I  turned  unto  my  God. 

What  though  it  pierced  my  fainting  heart, 
I  bless' d  Thine  hand  that  caused  the  smart : 
It  taught  my  tears  awhile  to  flow, 
But  saved  me  from  eternal  woe. 

*  Hebrews,  xii.  8.  t  Psalm,  ciix.  71. 


7  6  OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


Oh  !  hadst  Thou  left  me  unchastised, 
Thy  precepts  I  had  still  despised  ; 
And  still  the  snare  in  secret  laid 
Had  my  unwary  feet  betray 'd. 

I  love  Thee,  therefore,  O  my  God, 
And  breathe  towards  Thy  dear  abode  ; 
Where,  in  Thy  presence  fully  blest, 
Thy  chosen  saints  for  ever  rest. 

XXXVII.  TEMPTATION. 

THE  billows  swell,  the  winds  are  high, 
Clouds  overcast  my  wintry  sky  ; 
Out  of  the  depths  to  Thee  I  call, — 
My  fears  are  great,  my  strength  is  small. 

O  Lord,  the  pilot's  part  perform, 
And  guard  and  guide  me  through  the  storm 
Defend  me  from  each  threatening  ill, 
Control  the  waves, — say,  "  Peace  !  be  still." 

Amidst  the  roaring  of  the  sea 
My  soul  still  hangs  her  hope  on  Thee  ; 
Thy  constant  love,  thy  faithful  care, 
Is  all  that  saves  me  from  despair. 

"Dangers  of  every  shape  and  name 
Attend  the  followers  of  the  Lamb, 
Who  leave  the  world's  deceitful  shore, 
And  leave  it  to  return  no  more. 

Though  tempest- toss' d  and  half  a  wreck, 
My  Saviour  through  the  floods  I  seek  j 
Let  neither  winds  nor  stormy  main 
Force  back  my  shatter 'd  bark  again. 

XXXVIII.  LOOKING  UPWARDS  IN  A  STORM. 
GOD  of  my  life,  to  Thee  I  call, 
Afflicted  at  Thy  feet  I  fall ; 
When  the  great  water-floods  prevail,* 
Leave  not  my  trembling  heart  to  fail ! 

Friend  of  the  friendless  and  the  faint, 
Where  should  I  lodge  my  deep  complaint, 
Where  but  with  Thee,  whose  open  door 
Invites  the  helpless  and  the  poor  ! 

*  Psalm  Ixix.  15. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS.  7 7 


Did  ever  mourner  plead  with  Thee, 
And  Thou  refuse  that  mourner's  plea  ? 
Does  not  the  word  still  fix'd  remain, 
That  none  shall  seek  Thy  face  in  vain  ? 

That  were  a  grief  I  could  riot  bear, 
Didst  Thou  not  hear  and  answer  prayer : 
But  a  prayer-hearing,  answering  God 
Supports  me  under  every  load. 

Fair  Is  the  lot  that's  cast  for  me  ; 
I  have  an  Advocate  with  Thee  ; 
They  whom  the  world  caresses  most 
Have  no  such  privilege  to  boast. 

Poor  though  I  am,  despised,  forgot,* 
Yet  God,  my  God,  forgets  me  not : 
And  he  is  sat'*-,  and  must  succeed, 
For  whom  the  Lord  vouchsafes  to  plead. 

XXXIX.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH. 

MY  soul  is  sad,  and  much  dismay'd  ; 

See,  Lord,  what  legions  of  my  foes, 
With  fierce  Apollyon  at  their  head, 

My  heavenly  pilgrimage  oppose. 

See,  from  the  ever-burning  lake, 
How  like  a  smoky  cloud  they  rise  ! 

With  horrid  blasts  my  soul  they  shake, 
With  storms  of  blasphemies  and  lies. 

Their  fiery  arrows  reach  the  mark,f 

My  throbbing  heart  with  anguish  tear  ; 

Each  lights  upon  a  kindred  spark, 
And  finds  abundant  fuel  there. 

I  hate  the  thought  that  wrongs  the  Lord ; 

Oh  !  I  would  drive  it  from  my  breast, 
With  Thy  own  sharp  two-edged  sword, 

Far  as  the  east  is  from  the  west. 

Come,  then,  and  chase  the  cruel  host, 
Heal  the  deep  wounds  I  have  received ! 

Nor  let  the  power  of  darkness  boast. 

That  I  am  foil'd,  and  Thou  art  grieved  ! 

•  Psalm  xi.  17.  t  Eph.  vi.  16. 


78  OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


XL.  PEACE  AFTER  A  STORM. 


darkness  long  has  veil'd  my  mind, 
And  smiling  day  once  more  appears, 
Then,  my  Redeemer,  then  I  find 
The  folly  of  my  doubts  and  fears. 

Straight  I  upbraid  my  wandering  heart, 
And  blush  that  I  should  ever  be 

Thus  prone  to  act  so  base  a  part, 

Or  harbor  one  hard  thought  of  Thee  1 

Oh !  let  me  then  at  length  be  taught 
What  I  am  still  so  slow  to  learn, 

That  God  is  love,  and  changes  not, 
Nor  knows  the  shadow  of  a  turn. 

Sweet  truth,  and  easy  to  repeat ! 

But  when  my  faith  is  sharply  tried, 
I  find  myself  a  learner  yet, 

Unskilful,  weak,  and  apt  to  slide. 

But,  O  my  Lord,  one  look  from  Thee 
Subdues  the  disobedient  will, 

Drives  doubt  and  discontent  away, 
And  Thy  rebellious  worm  is  still. 

Thou  art  as  ready  to  forgive 

As  I  am  ready  to  repine ; 
Thou,  therefore,  all  the  praise  receive  ; 

Be  shame  and  self-abhorrence  mine. 

XLI.  MOURNING  AND  LONGING. 

THE  Saviour  hides  His  face  ; 
My  spirit  thirsts  to  prove 
Renew'd  supplies  of  pardoning  grace, 
And  never-fading  love. 

The  favor'd  souls  who  know 
What  glories  shine  in  Him, 
Pant  for  His  presence  as  the  roe 
Pants  for  the  living  stream. 

What  trifles  tease  me  now  ! 
They  swarm  like  summer  flies  j 
They  cleave  to  everything  I  do, 
And  swim  before  my  eyes. 


OLNL  Y  HYMNS.  79 

How  dull  the  Sabbath  day, 
Without  the  Sabbath's  Lord  I 
How  toilsome  then  to  sing  and  pray, 
And  wait  upon  the  Word  1 

Of  all  the  truths  I  hear, 
How  few  delight  uiy  taste  I 
I  glean  a  berry  here  and  there, 
But  mourn  the  vintage  past. 

Yet  let  me  (as  I  ought) 
Still  hope  to  be  supplied  ; 
No  pleasure  else  is  worth  a  thought, 
Nor  shall  I  be  denied. 

Though  I  am  but  a  worm, 
Unworthy  of  His  care, 
The  Lord  will  my  desire  perform, 
And  grant  me  all  my  prayer. 


XLII.  SELF-ACQUAINTANCE. 

DEAR  Lord  !  accept  a  sinful  heart, 

Which  of  itself  complains, 
And  mourns,  with  much  and  frequent  smartf 

The  evil  it  contains. 

* 

There  fiery  seeds  of  anger  lurk, 

Which  often  hurt  my  frame  ; 
And  wait  but  for  the  tempter's  work, 

To  fan  them  to  a  flame. 

Legality  holds  out  a  bribe 

To  purchase  life  from  Thee ; 
And  Discontent  would  fain  prescribe. 

How  Thou  shalt  deal  with  me. 

While  Unbelief  withstands  Thy  grace, 

And  puts  the  mercy  by  ; 
Presumption,  with  a  brow  of  brass, 

Says,  "  Give  me,  or  I  die  1  " 

How  eager  are  my  thoughts  to  roam, 

In  quest  of  what  they  love  ! 
But  ah  1  when  duty  calls  them  home, 

How  heavily  they  move  1 


8o  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


Oh,  cleanse  me  in  a  Saviour's  blood, 

Transform  me  by  Thy  power, 
And  make  me  Thy  beloved  abode, 

And  let  me  roam  no  more. 

XLIII.  PRAYER  FOR  PATIENCE. 

LORD,  who  hast  suffer'd  all  for  me, 

My  peace  and  pardon  to  procure, 
The  lighter  cross  I  bear  for  Thee, 

Help  me  with  patience  to  endure. 

The  storm  of  loud  repining  hush  ; 

I  would  in  humble  silence  mourn  ; 
Why  should  the  unburnt,  though  burning  bush, 

Be  angry  as  the  crackling  thorn  ? 

Man  should  not  faint  at  Thy  rebuke, 

Like  Joshua  falling  on  his  face,* 
When  the  cursed  thing  that  Achan  took 

Brought  Israel  into  just  disgrace. 

Perhaps  some  golden  wedge  suppress'd, 

Some  secret  sin  offends  my  God ; 
Perhaps  that  Babylonish  vest, 

Self -righteousness,  provokes  the  rod. 

Ah  1  were  I  buffeted  all  day, 

Mock'd,,  crown'd  with  thorns,  and  spit  upon, 
I  yet  should  have  no  right  to  say, 

My  great  distress  is  mine  alone. 

Let  me  not  angrily  declare 

No  pain  was  ever  sharp  like  mine, 

Nor  murmur  at  the  cross  I  bear, 

But  rather  weep,  remembering  Thine. 

XLIV.  SUBMISSION. 

O  LORD,  my  best  desire  fulfil, 

And  help  me  to  resign 
Life,  health,  and  comfort  to  Thy  will, 

And  make  Thy  pleasure  mine. 

Why  should  I  shrink  at  Thy  command, 

Whose  love  forbids  my  fears  ? 
Or  tremble  at  the  gracious  hand 

That  wipes  away  my  tears  ? 


«  Joshua  vii.  10, 11. 


OLNEY  HYMNS. 


No,  rather  let  me  freely  yield 

What  most  I  prize  to  Thee  ; 
Who  never  hast  a  good  withheld, 

Or  wilt  withhold,  from  me. 

Thy  favor,  all  my  journey  through, 

Thou  art  engaged  to  grant ; 
What  else  I  want,  or  think  I  do, 

'Tis  better  still  to  want. 

Wisdom  and  mercy  guide  my  way, 

Shall  I  resist  them  both  ? 
A  poor  blind  creature  of  a  day, 

And  crush' d  before  the  moth  1 

But  ah  !  my  inward  spirit  cries, 

Still  bind  me  to  Thy  sway  ; 
Else  the  next  cloud  that  veils  the  skies 

Drives  all  these  thoughts  away. 

XLV.  THE  HAPPY  CHANGE. 

How  bless'd  Thy  creature  is,  O  God, 

When  with  a  single  eye, 
He  views  the  lustre  of  Thy  Word, 

The  dayspring  from  on  high  ! 

Through  all  the  storms  that  veil  the  skies 
And  frown  on  earthly  things, 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  he  eyes, 
With  healing  on  His  wings. 

Struck  by  that  light,  the  human  heart. 

A  barren  soil  no  more, 
Sends  the  sweet  smell  of  grace  abroad, 

Where  serpents  lurk'd  before  * 

The  soul,  a  dreary  province  once 

Of  Satan's  dark  domain. 
Peels  a  new  empire  form'd  within, 

And  owns  a  heavenly  reign. 

The  glorious  orb  whose  golden  beams 

The  fruitful  year  control, 
Since  first  obedient  to  Thy  Word, 

He  started  from  the  goal, 

*  Isaiah  xxxv.  7. 


52  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


Has  cheer'd  the  nations  with  the  joys 

His  orient  rays  impart ; 
But,  Jesus,  'tis  Thy  light  alone 

Can  shine  upon  the  heart. 

XLVI.  RETIREMENT. 

PAR  from  the  world,  O  Lord,  I  flee, 

From  strife  and  tumult  far  ; 
From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 

His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 
With  prayer  and  praise  agree ; 

And  seem,  by  Thy  sweet  bounty  made, 
For  those  who  follow  Thee. 

There  if  Thy  Spirit  touch  the  soul, 

And  grace  her  mean  abode, 
Oh,  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 

She  communes  with  her  God ! 

There  like  the  nightingale  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays ; 
Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  Guardian  of  my  life, 
Sweet  source  of  light  Divine, 

And, — all  harmonious  names  in  one, — 
My  Saviour  1  Thou  art  mine 

What  thanks  I  owe  Thee,  and  what  love 

A  boundless,  endless  store, 
Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above, 

When  time  shall  be  no  more. 

XLVII.  THE  HIDDEN  LIFE. 

To  tell  the  Saviour  all  my  wants, 

How  pleasing  is  the  task ! 
Nor  less  to  praise  Him  when  He  grants 

Beyond  what  I  can  ask. 

My  laboring  spirit  vainly  seeks 

To  tell  but  half  the  joy, 
With  how  much  tenderness  He  speaks, 

And  helps  me  to  reply. 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  83 


Nor  were  it  wise,  nor  should  I  choose, 

Such  secrets  to  declare  ; 
Like  precious  wines  their  taste  they  lose, 

Exposed  to  open  air. 

But  this  with  boldness  I  proclaim, 

Nor  care  if  thousands  hear, 
Sweet  is  the  ointment  of  His  name, 

Not  life  is  half  so  dear. 

And  can  you  frown,  my  former  friends, 

Who  knew  what  once  I  was, 
And  blame  the  song  that  thus  commends 

The  Man  who  bore  the  cross  ? 

Trust  me,  I  draw  the  likeness  true, 

And  not  as  fancy  paints  ; 
Such  honor  may  Re  give  to  you, 

For  such  have  all  His  saints. 

XLVIII.  JOY  AXD  PEACE  IN  BKLIEVINGK 

SOMETIMES  a  light  surprises 

The  Christian  while  he  sings ; 
It  is  the  Lord  who  rises 

With  healing  on  His  wings  ; 
When  comforts  are  declining, 

He  grants  the  soul  again 
A  season  of  clear  shining, 

To  cheer  it  after  rain. 

In  holy  contemplation 

We  sweetly  then  pursue 
The  theme  of  God's  salvation, 

And  find  it  ever  new  ; 
Set  free  from  present  sorrow, 

We  cheerfully  can  say, 
E'en  let  the  unknown  to-morrow* 

Bring  with  it  what  it  may  I 

It  can  bring  with  it  nothing, 

But  He  will  bear  us  through ; 
Who  gives  the  lilies  clothing, 

Will  clothe  His  people  too  ; 
Beneath  the  spreading  heavens 

No  creature  but  is  fed  ; 
And  He  who  feeds  the  ravens 

Will  give  His  children  bread. 

*  Matthew  vi.  34. 


84  OLNEY  HYMNS. 

Though  vine  nor  fig  tree  neither* 

Their  wonted  fruit  shall  bear, 
Though  all  the  field  should  wither, 

Nor  flocks  nor  herds  be  there  : 
Yet  God  the  same  abiding, 

His  praise  shall  tune  my  voice  ; 
For,  while  in  Him  confiding, 

I  cannot  but  rejoice. 

XLIX.  TRUE  PLEASURES. 

LORD,  my  soul  with  pleasure  springs 

When  Jesu's  name  I  hear  : 
And  when  God  the  Spirit  brings 

The,  word  of  promise  near : 
Beauties  too,  in  holiness, 

Still  delighted  I  perceive  ; 
Nor  have  words  that  can  express 

The  joys  Thy  precepts  give. 

Clothed  in  sanctity  and  grace, 

How  sweet  it  is  to  see 
Those  who  love  Thee  as  they  pass, 

Or  when  they  wait  on  Thee. 
Pleasant  too  to  sit  and  tell 

What  we  owe  to  love  Divine; 
Till  our  bosoms  grateful  swell, 

And  eyes  begin  to  shine. 

Those  the  comforts  I  possess, 

Which  God  shall  still  increase, 
All  His  ways  are  pleasantness,  f 

And  all  His  paths  are  peace. 
Nothing  Jesus  did  or  spoke, 

Henceforth  let  me  ever  slight ; 
For  I  love  His  easy  yoke,J 

And  find  His  burden  light. 

L.  THE  CHRISTIAN. 

HONOR  and  happiness  unite 
To  make  the  Christian's  name  a  praise ; 

How  fair  the  scene,  how  clear  the  light, 
That  fills  the  remnant  of  His  days ! 

*  Habakkuk  iii.  17, 18.  t  Prov.  iii.  17.  J  Matt,  xi.30. 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  85 


A  kingly  character  He  bears, 

No  change  His  priestly  office  knows  ; 

Unfading  is  the  crown  He  wears, 
His  joys  can  never  reach  a  close. 

Adorn 'd  with  glory  from  on  high, 
Salvation  shines  upon  His  face  ; 

His  robe  is  of  the  ethereal  dye, 
His  steps  are  dignity  and  grace. 

Inferior  honors  He  disdains, 

Nor  stoops  to  take  applause  from  earth  ; 
The  King  of  kings  Himself  maintains 

The  expenses  of  His  heavenly  birth. 

The  noblest  creature  seen  below, 
Ordain'd  to  fill  a  throne  above; 

God  gives  him  all  He  can  bestow, 
His  kingdom  of  eternal  love ! 

My  soul  is  ravished  at  the  thought  I 
Methinks  from  earth  I  see  Him  risol 

Angels  congratulate  His  lot, 

And  shout  Him  welcome  to  the  skies  ! 

LI.  LIVELY  HOPE  AXD  GRACIOUS  FEAR. 

I  was  a  grovelling  creature  once, 

And  basely  cleaved  to  earth : 
I  wanted  spirit  to  renounce 

The  clod  that  gave  me  birth. 

But  God  hath  breathed  upon  a  worm, 

And  sent  me  from  above 
Wings  such  as  clothe  an  angel's  form, 

The  wings  of  joy  and  love. 

With  these  to  Pisgah's  top  I  fly 

And  there  delighted  stand, 
To  view,  beneath  a  shining  sky, 

The  spacious  promised  land. 

The  Lord  of  all  the  vast  domain 

Has  promised  it  to  me, 
The  length  and  breadth  of  all  the  plain 

AS  far  as  faith  can  see. 


86  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


How  glorious  is  my  privilege  ! 

To  Thee  for  help  I  call ; 
I  stand  upon  a  mountain's  edge, 

Oh  save  me,  lest  I  fall ! 

Though  much  exalted  in  the  Lord, 
My  strength  is  not  my  own; 

Then  let  me  tremble  at  His  word, 
And  none  shall  cast  me  down. 

LIT.  FOB  THE  POOR. 

WHEN  Hagar  found  the  bottle  spent 

And  wept  o'er  Ishmael, 
A  message  from  the  Lord  was  sent 

To  guide  her  to  a  well.* 

Should  riot  Elijah's  cake  and  cruse  f 

Convince  us  at  this  day, 
A  gracious  God  will  not  refuse 

Provisions  by  the  way  ? 

His  saints  and  servants  shall  be  fed, 

The  promise  is  secure ; 
"Bread  shall  be  given  them,"  as  He  said, 

"  Their  water  shall  be  sure."  £ 

Repasts  far  richer  they  shall  prove, 
Than  all  earth's  dainties  are  ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  taste  a  Saviour's  love, 
Though  in  the  meanest  fare. 

To  Jesus  then  your  trouble  bring, 

Nor  murmur  at  your  lot ; 
While  you  are  poor  and  He  is  King, 

You  shall  not  be  forgot. 

LIII.  MY  SOUL  THIRSTETH  FOR  GOD. 

I  THIRST,  but  not  as  once  I  did, 
The  vain  delights  of  earth  to  share  ; 

Thy  wounds,  Emmanuel,  all  forbid 
That  I  should  seek  my  pleasures  there, 


*  Gcnetls  xxi.  19.  1 1  Kings  xvii.  14.  t  Isaiah  xxxili.  16. 


OLNE  Y  HYMNS.  8  7 


It  was  the  sight  of  Thy  dear  cross 
First  wean'd  iny  soul  from  earthly  things  ; 

And  taught  me  to  esteem  as  dross 

The  mirth  of  fools  and  pomp  of  kings. 

I  want  that  grace  that  springs  from  Thee, 
That  quickens  all  things  where  it  flows, 

And  makes  a  wretched  thorn  like  me 
Bloom  as  the  myrtle,  or  the  rose. 

Dear  fountain  of  delight  unknown  I 
No  longer  sink  below  the  brim  ; 

But  overflow,  and  pour  me  down 
A  living  and  life-giving  stream  ! 

For  sure  of  all  the  plants  that  share 

The  notice  of  thy  Father's  eye, 
None  proves  less  grateful  to  Ilis  care, 

Or  yields  him  meaner  fruit  than  I. 


LIV.  LOVE  CONSTRAINED  TO  OBEDIENCE. 

No  strength  of  nature  can  suffice 

To  serve  the  Lord  aright : 
And  what  she  has  she  misapplies, 

For  want  of  clearer  light. 

Bow  long  beneath  the  law  I  lay 

In  bondage  and  distress  ; 
I  toil'd  the  precept  to  obey, 

But  toil'd  without  success. 

Then,  to  abstain  from  outward  sin 

Was  more  than  I  could  do  ; 
Now,  if  I  feel  its  power  within, 

I  feel  I  hate  it  too. 

Then  all  my  servile  works  were  done 

A  righteousness  to  raise ; 
Now,  freely  chosen  in  the  Son, 

I  freely  choose  His  ways. 

"  What  shall  I  do,"  was  then  the  word. 

"  That  I  may  worthier  grow  ?  ' 
*  What  shall  I  render  to  the  Lord  ?  " 

Is  my  inquiry  now. 


OLNEY  HYMNS. 


To  see  the  law  by  Christ  fulfilled 
And  hear  His  pardoning  voice, 

Changes  a  slave  into  a  child,* 
And  duty  into  choice. 

LV.  THE  HEART  HEALED  AND  CHANGED  BY  MERCY. 


enslaved  me  many  years, 

And  led  me  bound  and  blind  ; 
Till  at  length  a  thousand  fears 

Came  swarming  o'er  my  mind. 
"  Where,"  said  I,  in  deep  distress, 

"  Will  these  sinful  pleasures  end? 
How  shall  I  secure  my  peace, 

And  make  the  Lord  my  friend  ? 

Friends  and  ministers  said  much 

The  gospel  to  enforce  ; 
But  my  blindness  still  was  such, 

I  chose  a  legal  course  : 
Much  I  fasted,  watch' d,  and  strove, 

Scarce  would  shew  my  face  abroad, 
Fear'd  almost  to  speak  or  move, 

A  stranger  still  to  God. 

Thus  afraid  to  trust  His  grace, 

Long  time  did  I  rebel ; 
Till  despairing  of  my  case, 

Down  at  His  feet  I  fell : 
Then  my  stubborn  heart  He  broke, 

And  subdued  me  to  His  sway ; 
By  a  simple  word  He  spoke, 

"Thy  sins  are  done  away." 

LVI.  HATRED  OF  SIN. 

HOLY  Lord  God  !  I  love  Thy  truth, 

Nor  dare  Thy  least  commandment  slight 

Yet  pierced  by  sin  the  serpent's  tooth, 
I  mourn  the  anguish  of  the  bite. 

But  though  the  poison  lurks  within, 
Hope  bids  me  still  with  patience  wait ; 

Till  death  shall  set  me  free  from  sin, 
Free  from  the  only  thing  I  hate. 

*  Romans  viii.  14. 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  89 


Had  I  a  throne  above  the  rest, 

Where  angels  and  archangels  dwell, 

One  sin,  unslain,  within  my  breast, 

Would  make  that  heaven  as  dark  as  hell. 

The  prisoner  sent  to  breathe  fresh  air, 

And  blest  with  liberty  again, 
Would  mourn  were  he  condemn'd  to  wear 

One  link  of  all  his  former  chain. 

But,  oh  !  no  foe  invades  the  bliss, 

When  glory  crowns  the  Christian's  head  ; 

One  view  of  Jesus  as  He  is 

Will  strike  all  sin  forever  dead. 

LVII.  THE  NEW  CONVERT. 

THE  new-born  child  of  gospel  grace, 

Like  some  fair  tree  when  summer's  nigh, 

Beneath  Emmanuel's  shining  face 
Lifts  up  his  blooming  branch  011  high. 

No  fears  he  feels,  he  sees  no  foes, 
No  conflict  yet  his  faith  employs, 

Nor  has  he  learnt  to  whom  he  owes 
The  strength  and  peace  his  soul  enjoys. 

But  sin  soon  darts  its  cruel  sting, 
And  comforts  sinking  day  by  day, 

What  seem'd  his  own,  a  self-fed  spring, 
Proves  but  a  brook  that  glides  away. 

When  Gideon  arm'd  his  numerous  host, 
The  Lord  soon  made  his  numbers  less ; 

And  said,  "  Lest  Israel  vainlytooast,* 
My  arm  procured  me  this  success !  " 

Thus  will  He  bring  our  spirits  down, 
And  draw  our  ebbing  comforts  low, 

That  saved  by  grace,  but  not  our  own, 
We  may  not  claim  the  praise  we  owe. 

IiVIII.  TRUE  AND  FALSE  COMFORTS. 
O  GOD,  whose  favorable  eye, 

The  sin-sick  soul  revives, 
Holy  and  heavenly  is  the  joy 

Thy  shining  presence  gives. 

*  Judges  vii.  2. 


90  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


Not  such  as  hypocrites  suppose, 

Who  with  a  graceless  heart 
Taste  not  of  Thee,  but  drink  a  dose, 

Prepared  by  Satan's  art. 

Intoxicating  joys  are  theirs, 

Who  while  they  boast  their  light, 

And  seem  to  soar  above  the  stars, 
Are  plunging  into  night. 

Lull'd  in  a  soft  and  fatal  sleep, 

They  sin  and  yet  rejoice  ; 
Were  they  indeed  the  Saviour's  sheep, 

Would  they  not  hear  his  voice  ? 

Be  mine  the  comforts  that  reclaim 
The  soul  from  Satan's  power  ; 

That  make  me  blush  for  what  I  am, 
And  hate  my  sin  the  more. 

'Tis  joy  enough,  my  All  in  All, 

At  Thy  dear  feet  to  lie  ; 
Thou  wilt  not  let  me  lower  fall, 

And  none  can  higher  fly, 

LIX.  A  LIVING  AND  A  DEAD  FAITH. 

THE  Lord  receives  his  highest  praise 

From  humble  minds  and  hearts  sincere  ; 

While  all  the  loud  professor  says 
Offends  the  righteous  Judge's  ear. 

To  walk  as  children  of  the  day, 
To  mark  the  precepts'  holy  light, 

To  wage  the  warfare,  watch,  and  pray, 
Show  who  are  pleasing  in  His  sight. 

Not  words  alone  it  cost  the  Lord, 
To  purchase  pardon  for  His  own  ; 

Nor  will  a  soul  by  grace  restored 
Return  the  Saviour  words  alone. 

With  golden  bells,  the  priestly  vest, 
And  rich  pomegranates  border'd  round,* 

The  need  of  holiness  expressed, 

And  call'd  for  fruit  as  well  as  sound. 

*  Exodus  xxviii.  33- 


OLNEY  IIViMXS.  91 


Easy  indeed  it  Avere  to  reach 
A  mansion  in  the  courts  above, 

If  swelling  words  and  fluent  speech 
Might  serve  instead  of  faith  and  lore. 

But  none  shall  gain  the  blissful  place, 

Or  God's  unclouded  glory  see, 
Who  talks  of  free  and  sovereign  grace, 

Unless  that  grace  has  made  him  free  ! 

LX.  ABUSE  OF  THE  GOSPEL. 

Too  many,  Lord,  abuse  Thy  grace 

In  this  licentious  day, 
And  while  they  boast  they  see  Thy  face, 

They  turn  their  own  away. 

Thy  book  displays  a  gracious  light 

That  can  the  blind  restore  ; 
But  these  are  dazzled  by  the  sight, 

And  blinded  still  the  more. 

The  pardon  such  presume  upon, 

They  do  not  beg  but  steal ; 
And  when  they  plead  it  at  Thy  throne, 

Oh  1  where's  the  Spirit's  seal  ? 

Was  it  for  this,  ye  lawless  tribe, 

The  dear  Redeemer  bled  ? 
Is  this  the  grace  the  saints  imbibe 

From  Christ  the  living  head  ? 

Ah,  Lord,  we  know  Thy  chosen  few 

Are  fed  with  heavenly  fare ; 
But  these, — the  wretched  husks  they  chew, 

Proclaim  them  what  they  are. 

The  liberty  our  hearts  implore 

Is  not  to  live  in  sin  ; 
But  still  to  wait  at  Wisdom's  door, 

Till  Mercy  calls  us  in.* 

LXI.  THE  NARROW  WAY. 

WHAT  thousands  never  knew  the  road  ! 

What  thousands  hate  it  when  'tis  known ! 
None  but  the  chosen  tribes  of  God 

Will  seek  or  chose  it  for  their  own. 


92  OLNE  Y  HYMNS. 


A  thousand  ways  in  ruin  end, 
One  only  leads  to  joys  on  high  ; 

By  that  my  willing  steps  ascend, 
Pleased  with  a  journey  to  the  sky. 

No  more  I  ask  or  hope  to  find 

Delight  or  happiness  below  ; 
Sorrow  may  well  possess  the  mind 

That  feeds  where  thorns  and  thistles  gro\* 

The  joy  that  fades  is  not  for  me, 

I  seek  immortal  joys  above  ; 
There  glory  without  end  shall  be 

The  bright  reward  of  faith  and  love. 

Cleave  to  the  world,  ye  sordid  worms, 
Contented  lick  your  native  dust ! 

But  God  shall  fight  with  all  his  storms, 
Against  the  idol  of  your  trust. 

LXII.  DEPENDENCE. 

To  keep  the  lamp  alive, 

With  oil  we  fill  the  bowl ; 
'Tis  water  makes  the  willow  thrive, 

And  grace  that  feeds  the  soul. 

The  Lord's  unsparing  hand 

Supplies  the  living  stream ; 
It  is  not  at  our  own  command, 

But  still  derived  from  Him. 

Beware  of  Peter's  word,* 

Nor  confidently  say, 
"  I  never  will  deny  Thee,  Lord," — 

But, — "  Grant  I  never  may." 

Man's  wisdom  is  to  se^k 

His  strength  in  God  alone  ; 
And  e'en  an  angel  would  be  weak, 

Who  trusted  in  his  own. 

Retreat  beneath  his  wings, 

And  in  His  grace  confide  1 
This  more  exalts  the  King  of  kings,f 

Than  all  your  works  beside. 

*  Matthew  xxvi.  33.  t  John  vi.  29. 


OLNEY  HYMNS.  93 


In  Jesus  is  our  store, 

Grace  issues  from  His  throne  ; 
Whoever  says,  "  I  want  no  more," 

Confesses  he  has  done. 


LXIII.   NOT  WORKS. 

GRACE,  triumphant  in  the  throne, 
Scorns  a  rival,  reigns  alone  ; 
Come  and  bow  beneath  her  sway  ; 
Cast  your  idol  works  away  ! 
Works  of  man,  when  made  his  plea, 
Never  shall  accepted  be  ; 
Fruits  of  pride  (vainglorious  worm  1) 
Are  the  best  he  can  perform. 

Self,  the  god  his  soul  adores, 
Influences  all  his  powers  ; 
Jesus  is  a  slighted  name, 
Self-advancement  all  his  aim  : 
But  when  God  the  Judge  shall  come, 
To  pronounce  the  final  doom, 
Then  for  rocks  and  hills  to  hide 
All  his  works  and  all  his  pride ! 

Still  the  boasting  heart  replie.-. 
What  the  worthy  and  the  wise, 
Friends  to  temperance  and  peace, 
Have  not  these  a  righteousness  ? 
Banish  every  vain  pretence 
Built  on  human  excellence ; 
Perish  everything  in  man, 
But  the  grace  that  never  can. 


LXIV.  PRAISE  FOR  FAITH. 

OF  all  the  gifts  Thine  hand  bestows, 

Thou  Giver  of  all  good  ! 
Not  heaven  itself  a  richer  knows 

Than  my  Redeemer's  blood. 

Faith  too,  the  blood-receiving  grace, 
From  the  same  hand  we  gain  ; 

Else,  sweetly  as  it  suits  our  case, 
That  gift  had  been  in  vain. 


94  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


Till  Thou  Thy  teaching  power  apply, 

Our  hearts  refuse  to  see, 
And  weak,  as  a  distemper'd  eye, 

Shut  out  the  view  of  Thoe. 

Blind  to  the  merits  of  Thy  Son, 

What  misery  we  endure  ! 
Yet  fly  that  Hand  from  which  alone 

We  could  expect  a  cure. 

We  praise  Thee,  and  would  praise  Thee  more, 

To  Thee  our  all  we  owe  : 
The  precious  Saviour,  and  the  power 

That  makes  Him  precious  too. 

LXV.  GRACE  AND  PROVIDENCE. 

ALMIGHTY  KING  !  whose  wondrous  hand 
Supports  the  weight  of  sea  and  land  ; 
Whose  grace  is  such  a  boundless  store, 
No  heart  shall  break  that  sighs  for  more. 

Thy  providence  supplies  rny  food, 
And  'tis  Thy"  blessing  makes  it  good  ; 
My  soul  is  nourish'd  by  Thy  Word, 
Let  soul  and  body  praise  the  Lord  ! 

My  streams  of  outward  comfort  came 
From  Him  who  built  this  earthly  frame  ; 
Whate'er  I  want  His  bounty  gives, 
By  whom  my  soul  forever  lives. 

Either  His  hand  preserves  from  pain, 
Or,  if  I  feel  it,  heals  again  ; 
From  Satan's  malice  shields  my  breast, 
Or  overrules  it  for  the  best. 

Forgive  the  song  that  falls  so  low 
Beneath  the  gratitude  I  owe  ! 
It  means  Thy  praise,  however  poor, 
An  angel's  song  can  do  no  more. 

LXVI.  I  WILL  PRAISE  THE  LORD  AT  ALL  TIMES. 

WINTER  has  a  joy  for  me, 
While  the  Saviour's  charms  I  read, 

Lowly,  meek,  from  blemish  free, 
In  the  snowdrop's  pensive  head. 


OLNE Y  HYMNS.  9-, 

Spring  returns,  and  brings  along 

Life-invigorating  suns  : 
Hark  I  the  turtle's  plaintive  song 

Seems  to  speak  His  dying  groans  ! 

Summer  has  a  thousand  charms, 

All  expressive  ot  His  worth  ; 
'Tis  His  sun  tnat  lights  and  warms, 

His  the  air  that  cools  the  earth. 

What  I  has  autumn  left  to  say 

Nothing  of  a  Saviour's  grace  ? 
Yes,  the  beams  ot  milder  day 

Teil  me  of  his  smiling  face. 

Light  appears  with  early  dawn, 

While  the  sun  makes  haste  to  rise  ; 
See  His  bleeding  beauties  drawn 

On  the  blushes  of  the  skies. 

Evening  with  a  silent  pace, 

Slowly  moving  in  the  west, 
Shews  an  emblem  of  His  grace 

Points  to  an  eternal  rest. 

LXVII.    LONQIXQ   TO    BE   WITH   CHRIST. 

To  Jesus,  the  crown  of  my  hope, 

My  soul  is  in  haste  to  !>•>  ^one  ; 
Oh  bear  me,  ye  cherubim,  up. 

And  waft  me  away  to  His  throne ! 

My  Saviour,  whom  absent  1  love, 

Whom,  not  having  seen  I  adore; 
Whose  name  is  ex&,lted  above 

All  glory,  dominion,  and  power; 

Dissolve  thou  these  bonds  that  detain 

My  soul  from  her  portion  in  thee, 
Ah  I  strike  off  this  adamant  chain, 

And  make  me  eternally  free. 

When  that  happy  era  begins, 

When  arrayed  in  Thy  glories  I  shine, 
Nor  grieve  any  more,  by  my  sins, 

The  bosom  on  which  I  recline. 

Oh  then  shall  the  veil  be  removed, 

And  round  me  Thy  brightness  be  pour'd. 

I  shall  meet  Him  whom  absent  I  loved, 
Shall  see  Him  whom  unseen  I  adored. 


96  OLNEY  HYMNS. 


And  then,  never  more  shall  the  fears, 
The  trials,  temptations,  and  woes, 

Which  darken  this  valley  of  tears, 
Intrude  on  my  blissful  repose. 

Or,  if  yet  remember'd  above, 
Remembrance  no  sadness  shall  raise, 

They  will  be  but  new  signs  of  Thy  love, 
New  themes  for  my  wonder  and  praise. 

Thus  the  strokes  which  from  sin  and  from  pain 

Shall  set  me  eternally  free, 
Will  but  strengthen  and  rivet  the  chain 

Which  binds  me,  my  Saviour,  to  Thee. 

LXVIII.  LIGHT  SHINING  OUT  OF  DARKNKSS.* 

GOD  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 

His  wonders  to  perform  ; 
He  plants  His  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  His  bright  designs, 

And  works  His  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take, 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessings  on  your  head. 

Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  trust  Him  for  His  grace  ; 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 

He  hides  a  smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour  ; 
The  bud  may  have  a  bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err,t 

And  scan  His  work  in  vain : 

God  is  His  own  interpreter. 


A 


nd  he  will  make  it  plain. 


*  Composed  June,  1773,  on  the  eve  of  Cowper's  renewed  insanity. 
t  John  xiii.  7. 


ANTI-  THEL  YPHTHORA.  9? 

ANTI-THELYPHTHORA. 

A  TALE  IN  VERSE* 

1781. 
Printed  anonymously. 


Ah  miser 
Quantd  laboras  in  Charybdi ! 

J  \  ORACK,  lib.  i.  Ode  17. 

AIRY  DEL  CASTRO  was  as  bold  a  knight 

As  ever  earn'd  a  lady's  love  in  fight. 

Many  he  sought,  but  one  above  the  rest 

His  tender  heart  victoriously  impress'd  : 

In  fairy  land  was  born  the  matchless  dame, 

The  land  of  dreams,  Hypothesis  her  name. 

There  Fancy  nursed  her  in  ideal  bowers, 

And  laid  her  soft  in  amaranthine  flowers  ; 

Delighted  with  her  babe,  the  enchantress  smiled, 

And  graced  with  all  her  gifts  the  favorite  child. 

Her  wooed  Sir  Airy,  by  meandering  streams, 

In  daily  musings  and  in  nightly  dreams  ; 

With  all  the  flowers  he  found,  he  wove  in  haste 

Wreaths  for  her  brow,  and  girdles  for  her  waist : 

His  time,  his  talents,  and  his  ceaseless  care 

All  consecrated  to  adorn  the  fair  ; 

No  pastime  but  with  her  he  deign 'd  to  take, 

And, — if  he  studied,  studied  for  her  sake. 

And,  for  Hypothesis  was  somewhat  long, 

Nor  soft  enough  to  suit  a  lover's  tongue, 

He  call'd  her  Posy,  with  an  amorous  art, 

And  graved  it  on  a  gem,  and  wore  it  next  his  heart 

But  she,  inconstant  as  the  beams  that  play 

On  rippling  waters  in  an  April  day. 

With  many  a  freakish  trick  deceived  his  pains, 

To  pathless  wilds  and  unfrequented  plains 

*  A  cousin  of  Cowper's,  the  Rev.  Martin  Madan.  had  published  a  book  called 
"  Thelyphthorn,"  advocating  polygamy  !  It  was  severely  criticised  in  the  "Monthly 
Review,"  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Badcock.  Madan  answered  him,  and  received  a  reply  intke 
"  Review."  Cowper  in  this  poem  represents  the  disputants  as  two  knights  jousting. 

7 


98  ANTI-THELYPHTHORA. 


Enticed  him  from  his  oaths  of  knighthood  far. 

Forgetful  of  the  glorious  toils  of  war. 

'Tis  thus  the  tenderness  that  love  inspires 

Too  oft  betrays  the  votaries  of  his  fires  ; 

Borne  far  away  on  elevated  wings. 

They  sport  like  wanton  doves  in  airy  rings, 

And  laws  and  duties  are  neglected  things. 

Nor  he  alone  address'd  the  wayward  fair ; 
Full  many  a  knight  had  been  entangled  there. 
But  still,  whoever  wooed  her  or  embraced, 
On  every  mind  some  mighty  spell  she  cast, 
Some  she  would  teach  (for  she  was  wondrous  wise. 
And  made  her  dupes  see  all  things  with  her  eyes,) 
That  forms  material,  whatsoe'er  we  dream, 
Are  not  at  all,  or  are  not  what  they  seem  ; 
That  substances  and  modes  of  every  kind 
Are  mere  impressions  on  the  passive  mind  : 
And  he  that  splits  his  cranium,  breaks  at  most 
A  fancied  head  against  a  fancied  post ; 
Others,  that  earth,  ere  sin  had  drown' d  it  all, 
Was  smooth  and  even  as  an  ivory  ball ; 
That  all  the  various  beauties  we  survey, 
Hills,  valleys,  rivers,  and  the  boundless  sea, 
Are  but  departures  from  the  first  design, 
Effects  of  punishment  and  wrath  divine. 
She  tutor 'd  some  in  Daedalus' s  art, 
And  promised  they  should  act  his  wildgoose  part, 
On  waxen  pinions  soar  without  a  fall, 
Swift  as  the  proudest  gander  of  them  all. 

But  fate  reserved  Sir  Airy  to  maintain 
The  wildest  project  of  her  teeming  brain  ; — 
That  wedlock  is  not  rigorous  as  supposed, 
But  man,  within  a  wider  pale  enclosed, 
May  rove  at  will,  where  appetite  shall  lead, 
Free  as  the  lordly  bull  that  ranges  o'er  the  mead  ; 
That  forms  and  rites  are  tricks  of  human  law, 
As  idle  as  the  chattering  of  a  daw  ; 
That  lewd  incontinence,  and  lawless  rape, 
Are  marriage  in  its  true  and  proper  shape  ; 
That  man  by  faith  and  truth  is  made  a  slave, 
The  ring  a  bauble,  and  the  priest  a  knave. 

"  Fair  fall  the  deed  !"  the  knight  exulting  cried, 
"  Now  is  the  time  to  make  the  maid  a  bride !" 
'Twas  on  the  noon  of  an  autumnal  day, 
October  hight,  but  mild  and  fair  as  May ; 
When  scarlet  fruits  the  russet  hedge  adorn. 


ANTI-THELYPHTIfORA.  99 


And  floating  films  envelop  every  thorn  ; 

When  gently  as  in  June,  the  rivers  glide, 

And  only  miss  the  flowers  that  graced  their  side  ; 

The  linnet  twitter'd  out  his  parting  song, 

With  many  a  chorister  the  woods  among  ; 

On  southern  banks  the  ruminating  sheep 

Lay  snug  and  warm  ;- -'twas  summer's  farewell  peep. 

Propitious  to  his  fond  intent  there  grew, 

An  arbor  near  at  hand  of  thickest  yew, 

With  many  a  boxen  bush,  close  clipt  between, 

And  phillyrea  of  a  gild'd  green. 

But  what  old  Chaucer's  merry  page  befits, 
The  chaster  muse  of  modern  days  omits. 
Suffice  it  then  in  decent  terms  to  say, 
She  saw, — and  turn'd  her  rosy  cheek  away. 
Small  need  of  prayer-book  or  of  priest,  I  ween. 
Where  parties  are  agreed,  retired  the  scene, 
Occasion  prompt,  and  appetite  so  keen. 
Hypothesis  (for  with  such  mauic  power 
Fancy  endued  her  in  her  natal  hour,) 
From  many  a  steaming  lake  and  reeking  bog, 
Bade  rise  in  haste  a  dank  and  drizzling  fog. 
That  curtain'd  round  the  scene  where  They  n -posed, 
And  wood  and  Iawn.iii  dusky  folds  enclosed. 

Fear  seiz'd  the  trembling  sex  ;  in  every  grove 
They  wept  the  wrongs  of  honorable  love, 
"  In  vain,"  they  cried,  "are  hymeneal  rii< 
Vain  our  delusive  hope  of  constant  knights  ; 
The  marriage  bond  has  lost  its  powers  to  bind, 
And  flutters  loose,  the  sport  of  every  wind. 
The  bride,  while  yet  her  bride's  attire  is  on, 
SI  Kill  mourn  her  absent  lord,  for  he  is  gone, 
Satiate  of  her,  and  weary  of  the  same, 
To  distant  wilds  in  quest  of  other  game. 
Ye  fair  Circassians !  all  your  lutes  employ, 
Seraglios  sing,  and  harems  dance  for  joy  ! 
For  British  nymphs  whose  lords  were  lately  true, 
>  ymphs  quite  as  fair,  and  happier  once  than  you. 
Honor,  esteem,  and  confidence  forgot, 
Feel  all  the  meanness  of  your  slavish  lot. 
O  curst  Hypothesis !  your  hellish  arts 
Seduce  our  husbands,  and  estrange  their  hearts. — 
Will  none  arise  ?  no  knight  who  still  retains 
The  blood  of  ancient  worthies  in  his  veins, 
To  assert  the  charter  of  the  chaste  and  fair, 
Find  out  her  treacherous  heart,  and  plant  a  dagger  the>«  ?  " 


fOO  ANTI-THELYPHTHORA. 

A  knight — (can  he  that  serves  the  fair  do  less  ?) 
Starts  at  the  call  of  beauty  in  distress  \ 
And  he  that  does  not,  whatsoe'er  occurs, 
Is  recreant,  and  unworthy  of  his  spurs.* 

Full  many  a  champion,  bent  on  hardy  deed, 
Call'd  for  his  arms  and  for  his  princely  steed. 
So  swarm'd  the  Sabine  youth,  and  grasp'd  the  shield, 
When  Roman  rapine,  by  no  laws  withheld, 
Lest  Rome  should  end  with  her  first  founders'  lives, 
Made  half  their  maids,  sans  ceremony,  wives. 
But  not  the  mitred  few  ;  the  soul  their  charge  ; 
They  left  these  bodily  concerns  at  large  ; 
Forms  or  no  forms,  pluralities  or  pairs, 
Right  reverend  sirs !  was  no  concern  of  theirs. 
The  rest,  alert  and  active  as  became 
A  courteous  knighthood,  caught  the  generous  flame : 
One  was  accoutred  when  the  cry  began. 
Knight  of  the  Silver  Moon,  Sir  Marmadan'f 

Oft  as  his  patroness,  who  rules  the  night, 
Hangs  out  her  lamp  in  yon  cerulean  height, 
His  vow  was,  (and  he  well  perform' d  his  vow,) 
Arm'd  at  all  points,  with  terror  on  his  brow, 
To  judge  the  land,  to  purge  atrocious  crimes, 
And  quell  the  shapeless  monsters  of  the  times. 
For  cedars  famed,  fair  Lebanon  supplied 
The  well-poised  lance  that  quiver'd  at  his  side  j 
Truth  arm'd  it  with  a  point  so  keen,  so  just, 
No  spell  or  charm  was  proof  against  the  thrust. 
He  couch'd  it  firm  upon  his  puissant  thigh, 
And  darting  through  his  helm  an  eagle's  eye, 
On  all  the  wings  of  chivalry  advanced 
To  where  the  fond  Sir  Airy  lay  entranced. 

He  dreamt  not  of  a  foe,  or  if  his  fear 
Foretold  one,  dreamt  not  of  a  foe  so  near. 
Far  other  dreams  his  feverish  mind  einploy'd, 
Of  rights  restored,  variety  en  joy 'd  : 
Of  virtue  too  well  fenced  to  fear  a  flaw ; 
Vice  passing  current  by  the  stamp  of  law ; 
Large  population  on  a  liberal  plan, 
And  woman  trembling  at  the  foot  of  man  ; 
How  simple  wedlock  fornication  works, 
And  Christians  marrying  may  convert  the  Turks. 

The  trumpet  now  spoke  Marmadan  at  hand, 
A  trumpet  that  was  heard  through  all  the  land. 

*  When  a  knight  was  degraded,  his  spurs  were  chopped  off. — C. 
t  Mr.  Badcock  in  Monthly  Iteview  for  October,  1780.— C. 


ANTI-  TIIEL  YPHTHORA.  t  o  \ 


His  high-bred  steed  expands  his  nostriis  wide, 
And  snorts  aloud  to  cast  the  mist  aside ; 
But  he,  the  virtues  of  his  lance  to  show, 
Struck  thrice  the  point  upon  his  saddle-bow  ; 
Three  sparks  ensued  that  chased  it  all  away, 
And  set  the  unseemly  pair  in  open  day. 
"  To  horse  !  "  he  cried,  "  or,  by  this  good  right  hand 
And  better  spear,  I  smite  you  where  you  stand.'' 

Sir  Airy,  not  a  whit  dismay'd  or  scared, 
Buckled  his  helm,  and  to  his  steed  repair'd  ; 
Whose  bridle,  while  he  cropp'd  the  grass  below, 
Hung  not  far  off  upon  a  myrtle  bough. 
Hi'  mounts  at  once, — such  confidence  infused 
The  insidious  witch  that  had  his  wits  abused ; 
And  she,  regardless  of  her  softer  kind, 
Seized  fast  the  saddle  and  sprang  up  behind. 
"  Oh  shame  to  knighthood  !  "  his  assailant  cried  ; 
"Oh  shame!"  ten  thousand  echoing  nymphs  replied 
Placed  with  advantage  at  his  listening  ear, 
She  whisper'd  still  that  he  had  nought  to  fear  ; 
That  he  was  cas.-d  in  such  enchanted  steel, 
So  polish'd  and  compact  from  head  to  heel, 
"Come  ten,  come  twenty,  should  an  army  call 
Thee  to  the  field,  thou  shonldst  withstand  tin-in  all." 

"  By  Dian's  beams,"  Sir  Marmadan  exclaim'd, 
"  The  guiltless  still  are  ever  least  ashamed  : 
But  guard  thee  well,  expect  no  feign'd  attack  ; 
And  guard  beside  the  sorceress  at  thy  back  ! ' 

He  spoke  indignant,  and  his  spurs  applied, 
Though  little  need,  to  his  good  palfrey's  side: 
The  barb  sprang  forward,  and  his  lord,  whose  force 
Was  equal  to  the  swiftness  of  his  horse, 
Rush'd  with  a  whirlwind's  fury  on  the  foe, 
And,  Phineas  like,  translix'd  them  at  a  blow. 

Then  sang  the  married  and  the  maiden  throng, 
Love  graced  the  thenie,  and  harmony  the  song  ; 
The  Fauns  and  Satyrs,  a  lascivious  race, 
Shriek'd  at  the  sight,  and,  conscious,  fled  the  place : 
And  Hymen,  trimming  his  dim  torch  anew, 
His  snowy  mantle  o'er  his  shoulders  threw  ; 
ue  turn'd,  and  view'd  it  oft  on  every  eiue, 
And  reddening  with  a  just  and  generous  pride, 
Bless'd  the  glad  beams  of  that  propitious  day, 
The  spot  he  loathed  so  much  forever  cleansed  away.* 

*  Cowper  never  included  thia  poem  in  his  works.  Sou  they  discovered  it  by  finding 
a  note  (in  a  book  he  was  reading)  irom  S.  Rose,  a  friend  of  Cowper's,  stating  that  such 
a  peem  had.  been  written  by  the  "  Author  of  the  Task." 


10*  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 

^ . - '. ,- 


•    C     «         «  •      »    <   o  c 


XOVE  ABUSED  ; 

THE  THOUGHT   SUGGESTED   BY   THELYPHTHORA. 

WHAT  is  there  in  the  vale  of  life 
Half  so  delightful  as  a  Wife, 
When  friendship,  love,  and  peace  combine 
To  stamp  the  marriage-bond  divine? 
The  stream  of  pure  and  genuine  love 
Derives  its  current  from  above  ; 
And  earth  a  second  Eden  shows, 
Where'er  the  healing  water  flows  : 
But  ah !  if  from  the  dykes  and  drains 
Of  sensual  nature's  feverish  veins, 
Lust,  like  a  lawless  headstrong  flood, 
Impregnated  with  oose  and  mud, 
Descending  fast  on  every  side, 
Once  mingles  with  the  sacred  tide, 
Farewell  the  soul-enlivening  scene  ! 
The  banks  that  wore  a  smiling  green, 
With  rank  defilement  overspread, 
Bewail  their  flowery  beauties  dead. 
The  stream  polluted,  dark,  and  dull, 
Diffused  into  a  Stygian  pool, 
Through  life's  last  melancholy  years 
Is  fed  with  ever-flowing  tears  : 
Complaints  supply  the  zephyr's  part, 
And  sighs  that  heave  a  breaking  heart. 


THE   PROGRESS   OF  ERROR. 

Si  quid  loquar  audiendum. — HOR.  lib.  iv.  Od.  2. 

SING,  Muse  (if  such  a  theme,  so  dark,  so  long, 
May  find  a  Muse  to  grace  it  with  a  song), 
By  what  unseen  and  unsuspected  arts 
The  serpent  error  twines  round  human  hearts  ; 
Tell  where  she  lurks,  beneath  what  flowery  shades 
That  not  a  glimpse  of  genuine  light  pervades, 
The  poisonous,  black,  insinuating  worm 
Successfully  conceals  her  loathsome  form. 
Take,  if  you  can,  ye  careless  and  supine, 
Counsel  and  caution  from  a  voice  like  mine  I 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR,  103 

Truths  that  the  theorists  could  never  reach, 
And  observation  taught  me,  I  would  teach. 

Not  all  whose  eloquence  the  faney  fills, 
Musical  as  the  chime  of  tinkling  rills, 
Weak  to  perform,  though  mighty  to  pretend, 
Can  trace  her  mazy  windings  to  their  end. 
Discern  the  fraud  beneath  the  specious  lure, 
Prevent  the  danger,  or  prescribe  the  cure. 
The  clear  harangue,  and  cold  as  it  is  clear, 
Falls  soporific  on  the  listless  ear  ; 
Like  quicksilver,  the  rhetoric  they  display 
Shines  as  it  runs,  but  grasped  at,  slips  away. 

Placed  for  his  trial  on  this  bustling  stage, 
From  thoughtless  youth  to  ruminating  age, 
Free  in  his  will  to  choose  or  to  refuse, 
Man  may  improve  the  crisis,  or  abuse  ; 
Else,  on  the  fatalist's  unrighteous  plan, 
Say  to  what  bar  amenable  were  man  ? 
With  naught  in  charge,  he  could  betray  no  trust, 
And  if  he  fell,  wo  ild  fall  because  he  must ; 
If  Love  reward  hin.,  or  if  Vengeance  strike, 
His  recompense  in  both  unjust  alike. 
Divine  authority  within  his  breast 
Brings  every  thought,  word,  action,  to  the  test  ; 
Warns  him  or  prompts,  approves  him  or  restrains, 
As  Reason,  or  as  Passion,  takes  the  reins. 
Heaven  from  above,  and  Conscience  from  within, 
Cry  in  his  startled  ear,  "  Abstain  from  sin ! ' 
The  world  around  solicits  his  desire, 
And  kindles  in  his  soul  a  treacherous  fire, 
While,  all  his  purposes  and  steps  to  guard, 
Peace  follows  Virtue  as  its  sure  reward, 
And  Pleasure  brings  as  surely  in  her  train, 
Remorse,  and  Sorrow,  arid  vindictive  Pain. 

Man  thus  endued  with  an  elective  voice, 
Must  be  supplied  with  objects  of  his  choice  ; 
Where'er  he  turns,  enjoyment  and  delight, 
Or  present,  or  in  prospect,  meet  his  sight  ; 
These  open  on  the  spot  their  honeyed  store, 
Those  call  him  loudly  to  pursuit  of  more. 
His  unexhausted  mine,  the  sordid  vice 
Avarice  shows,  and  virtue  is  the  price  ; 
Here  various  motives  his  ambition  raise, 
Power,  Pomp,  and  Splendor,  and  the  Thirst  of  Praise  ; 
There  Beauty  woes  him  with  expanded  arms  ; 
Even  Bacchanalian  Madness  has  its  charms. 


104  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 


Nor  these  alone,  whose  pleasures  less  refined 
Might  well  alarm  the  most  unguarded  mind, 
Seek  to  supplant  his  inexperienced  youth, 
Or  lead  him  devious  from  the  path  of  truth  ; 
Hourly  allurements  on  his  passions  press, 
Safe  in  themselves,  but  dangerous  in  the  excess. 

Hark !  how  it  floats  upon  the  dewy  air  I 
Oh  what  a  dying,  dying  close  was  there ! 
'Tis  Harmony  from  yon  sequester' d  bower, 
Sweet  Harmony  that  soothes  the  midnight  hour  ; 
Long  ere  the  charioteer  of  day  had  run 
His  morning  course,  the  enchantment  was  begun, 
And  he  shall  gild  yon  mountain's  height  again, 
Ere  yet  the  pleasing  toil  becomes  a  pain. 

Is  this  the  rugged  path,  the  steep  ascent, 
That  Virtue  points  to  ?     Can  a  life  thus  spent 
Lead  to  the  bliss  she  promises  the  wise, 
Detach  the  soul  from  earth,  and  speed  her  to  the  skies 
Ye  devotees  to  your  adored  employ, 
Enthusiasts  drunk  with  an  unreal  joy, 
Love  makes  the  music  of  the  blest  above, 
Heaven's  harmony  is  universal  love, 
And  earthly  sounds,  though  sweet  and  well  combined, 
And  lenient  as  soft  opiates  to  the  mind, 
Leave  Vice  and  Folly  unsubdued  behind. 

Grey  dawn  appears  ;  the  sportsman  and  his  train 
Speckle  the  bosom  of  the  distant  plain  ; 
'Tis  he,  the  Nimrod  of  the  neighboring  lairs, — 
Save  that  his  scent  is  less  acute  than  theirs, 
For  persevering  chase,  and  headlong  leaps, — 
True  beagle  as  the  stanchest  hound  he  keeps. 
Charged  with  the  folly  of  his  life's  mad  scene, 
He  takes  offence,  and  wonders  what  you  mean  ; 
The  joy,  the  danger  and  the  toil  o'erpays  ; 
'Tis  exercise,  and  health,  arid  length  of  days  ; 
Again  impetuous  to  the  field  he  flies, 
Leaps  every  fence  but  one,  there  falls  and  dies  ; 
Like  a  slain  deer,  the  tumbril  brings  him  home, 
TJninissed  but  by  his  dogs  and  by  his  groom. 

Ye  clergy,  while  your  orbit  is  your  place, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  stars  of  human  race  ; 
But  if  eccentric  ye  forsake  your  sphere, 
Prodigies  ominous,  and  viewed  with  fear  ; 
The  comet's  baneful  influence  is  a  dream, 
Yours  real,  arid  pernicious  in  the  extreme. 
What  then  !— are  appetites  and  lusts  laid  down 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR.  105 

With  the  same  ease  the  man  puts  on  his  gown  ? 

Will  avarice  and  Concupiscence  give  place, 

Charmed  by  the  sounds,  "  Your  Reverence,"  or  "  Your  Grace  ?" 

No.     But  his  own  engagement  binds  him  fast, 

Or,  if  it  does  not,  brands  him  to  the  last 

What  atheists  call  him,  a  designing  knave, 

A  mere  church -juggler,  hypocrite,  and  slave. 

Oh  laugh  or  mourn  with  me,  the  rueful  jest, 

A  cassocked  huntsman,  and  a  fiddling  priest ! 

He  from  Italian  songsters  takes  his  cue  ; 

Set  Paul  to  music,  he  shall  quote  him  too. 

lie  takes  the  field  the  master  of  the  pack 

Cries — "  Well  done,  Saint ! '    and  claps  him  on  the  back. 

Is  this  the  path  of  sanctity  ?     Is  this 

To  stand  a  way-mark  in  the  road  to  bliss  ? 

Himself  a  wanderer  from  the  narrow  way, 

His  silly  sheep,  what  wonder  if  they  stray? 

Go,  cast  your  orders  at  your  Bishop's  feet, 

Send  your  dishonored  gown  to  Horimouth  Street,* 

The  sacred  function,  in  your  hands  is  made — 

Sad  sacrilege  !  no  function,  but  a  trade! 

Occiduus  is  a  pastor  of  renown  ; 

When  he  has  prayed  and  preached  the  Sabbath  down, 
With  wire  and  catgut  he  concludes  the  day, 
Quavering  arid  semiquavering  care  away. 
The  full  concerto  swells  upon  your  ear  ; 
All  elbows  shake.     Look  in,  and  you  would  swear 
The  Babylonian  tyrant  with  a  nod 
Had  summoned  them  to  serve  his  golden  god  ; 
So  well  that  thought  the  employment  seems  to  suit, 
Psaltery  and  sackbut,  dulcimer  and  flute. 
Oh  fie  !  'Tis  evangelical  and  pure  ; 
Observe  each  face,  how  sober  and  demure  I 
Ecstasy  sets  her  stamp  on  every  mien, 
Chins  fallen,  and  not  an  eyeball  to  be  seen. 
Still  I  insist,  though  music  heretofore 
nas  cnarmea  me  mucli  (not  even  Occiauus  more; 
Love,  joy,  and  peace  make  harmony  more  meet 
For  sabbath  evenings,  and  perhaps  as  sweet. 

Will  not  the  sickliest  sheep  of  every  flock 
Resort  to  this  example  as  ,a  rock, 
There  stand,  and  justify  the  foul  abuse 
Of  sabbath  hours  with  plausible  excuse  ! 
If  apostolic  gravity  be  free 
To  play  the  fool  on  Sundays,  why  not  we  ? 


*  Here  lived  the  dealers  in  old  clothw. 


io6  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 

If  he  the  tinkling  harpsichord  regards 
As  inoffensive,  what  offence  in  cards  ? 
Strike  up  the  fiddles,  let  us  all  be  gay  ! 
Laymen  have  leave  to  dance,  if  parsons  play. 

O  Italy ! — Thy  sabbaths  will  be  soon 
Our  sabbaths,  closed  with  mummery  and  buffoon  ; 
Preaching  and  pranks  will  share  the  motley  scene, 
Ours  parcelled  out,  as  thine  have  ever  been, 
God's  worship  and  the  mountebank  between. 
What  says  the  prophet  ?     Let  that  day  be  blest 
With  holiness  and  consecrated  rest ; 
Pastime  and  business  both,  it  should  exclude, 
And  bar  the  door  the  moment  they  intrude, 
Nobly  distinguished  above  all  the  six, 
By  deeds  in  which  the  world  must  never  mix. 
Hear  him  again.     He  calls  it  a  delight, 
A  day  of  luxury,  observed  aright, 
When  the  glad  soul  is  made  Heaven's  welcome  guest, 
Sits  banqueting,  and  God  provides  the  feast. 
But  triflers  are  engaged  and  cannot  come  ; 
Their  answer  to  the  call  is  — "  Not  at  home." 

O  the  dear  pleasures  of  the  velvet  plain, 
The  painted  tablets,  dealt  and  dealt  again ! 
Cards,  with  what  rapture,  and  the  polished  die, 
The  yawning  chasm  of  indolence  supply ! 
Then  to  the  dance,  and  make  the  sober  moon 
Witness  of  joys  that  shun  the  sight  of  noon. 
Blame,  cynic,  if  you  can,  quadrille  or  ball, 
The  snug,  close  party,  or  the  splendid  hall, 
Where  Night,  down-stooping  from  her  ebon  throne, 
Views  constellations  brighter  than  her  own. 
'Tis  innocent,  and  harmless,  and  refined, 
The  balm  of  care,  Elysium  of  the  mind. 
Innocent  I    Oh  !  if  venerable  Time 
Slain  at  the  foot  of  Pleasure  be  no  crime, 
Then,  with  his  silver  beard  and  magic  wand, 
Let  Gomus  rise  Archbishop  of  the  land, 
Let  him  your  rubric  and  your  feasts  prescribe, 
Grand  Metropolitan  of  all  the  tribe. 

Of  manners  rough,  and  coarse  athletic  cast, 
The  rank  debauch  suits  Clo<Jio's  filthy  taste, 
Rufillus,  exquisitely  formed  by  rule, 
Not  of  the  moral,  but  the  dancing  school, 
Wonders  at  Clodio's  follies,  in  a  tone 
As  tragical,  as  others  at  his  own. 
He  cannot  drink  five  bottles,  bilk  the  score, 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR.  107 

•—         I        •fc.  -        —  -     ..—  ••  -  •  ,—.--..-  -  -...••  H  ^^«% 

Then  kill  a  constable,  and  drink  five  more, 

But  he  can  draw  a  pattern,  make  a  tart, 

And  has  the  Ladies'  Etiquette  by  heart. 

Go,  fool ;  and,  arm  in  arm  with  Clodio,  plead 

Your  cause  before  a  bar  you  little  dread  ; 

But  know,  the  law  that  bids  the  drunkard  die, 

Is  far  too  just  to  pass  the  trifler  by. 

Both  baby-featured,  and  of  infant  size, 

Viewed  from  a  distance,  and  with  heedless  eyes, 

Folly  and  Innocence  are  so  alike, 

The  difference,  though  essential,  fails  to  strike. 

Yet  Folly  ever  has  a  vacant  stare, 

A  simpering  countenance,  and  a  trifling  air  ; 

But  Innocence,  sedate,  serene,  erect, 

Delights  us,  by  engaging  our  respect. 

Man,  Nature's  guest  by  invitation  sweet, 
Receives  from  her  both  appetite  and  treat ; 
But,  if  he  play  the  glutton  and  exceed, 
His  benefactress  blushes  at  the  deed, 
For  Nature,  nice,  as  liberal  to  dispense, 
Made  nothing  but  a  brute,  the  slave  of  sense. 
Daniel  ate  pulse  by  choice — example  rare! 
Heaven  blessed  the  youth,  and  made  him  fresh  and  fair; 
OJorgonius  sits,  abdominous  and  wan, 
Like  a  fat  squab  upon  a  Chinese  fan  ; 
He  snuffs  far  off  the  anticipated  joy, 
Turtle  and  venison  all  his  thoughts  employ ; 
Prepares  for  meals  as  jockeys  take  a  sweat, 
O  nauseous  ! — an  emetic  for  a  whet ! 
Will  Providence  o'erlook  the  wasted  good  ? 
Temperance  were  no  virtue  if  He  could. 

That  pleasures,  therefore,  or  what  such  we  call* 
Are  hurtful  is  a  truth  confessed  by  all ; 
And  some  that  seem  to  threaten  virtue  less, 
Still  hurtful  in  the  abuse,  or  by  the  excess. 

Is  man  then  only  for  his  torment  placed, 
The  centre  of  delights  he  may  not  taste  ? 
Like  fabl  d  Tantalus,  condemned  to  hear 
The  precious  stream  still  purling  in  his  ear. 
Li;  -deep  in  what  he  longs  for,  and  yet  curst 
With  prohibition  and  perpetual  thirst  ? 
No,  wrangler, — destitute  of  shame  and  sense, 
Th    pr  cept  that  enjoins  him  abstinence, 
Forbids  him  none  but  the  licentious  joy, 
Whose  fruit,  chough  fair,  tempts  only  to  destroy. 


loS  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 


Remorse,  the  fatal  egg  by  Pleasure  laid 

In  every  bosom  where  her  nest  is  made, 

Hatched  by  the  beams  of  truth,  denies  him  rest, 

And  proves  a  raging  scorpion  in  his  breast. 

No  pleasure  !     Are  domestic  comforts  dead  ? 

Are  all  the  nameless  sweets  of  friendship  fled  ? 

Has  time  worn  out,  or  fashion  put  to  shame, 

Good  sense,  good  health,  good  conscience,  and  good  fame? 

All  these  belong  to  virtue,  and  all  prove 

That  virtue  has  a  title  to  your  love. 

Have  you  no  touch  of  pity  that  the  poor 

Stand  starved  at  your  inhospitable  door? 

Or  if  yourself,  too  scantily  supplied, 

Need  help,  let  honest  industry  provide. 

Earn,  if  you  want ;   if  you  abound,  impart ; 

These  both  are  pleasures  to  the  feeling  heart. 

No  pleasure !    Has  some  sickly  eastern  waste 

Sent  us  a  wind  to  parch  us  at  a  blast? 

Can  British  Paradise  no  scenes  afford 

To  please  her  sated  and  indifferent  lord? 

Are  sweet  philosophy's  enjoyments  run 

Quite  to  the  lees  ?    And  has  religion  none  ? 

Brutes  capable  would  tell  you  'tis  a  lie, 

And  judge  you  from  the  kennel  and  the  sty. 

Delights  like  these,  ye  sensual  and  profane, 

Ye  are  bid,  begged,  besought  to  entertain ; 

Called  to  these  crystal  streams,  do  ye  turn  off, 

Obscene,  to  swill  and  swallow  at  a  trough  ? 

Envy  the  beast,  then,  on  whom  Heaven  bestows 

Your  pleasures,  with  no  curses  in  the  close. 

Pleasure  admitted  in  undue  degree 
Enslaves  the  will,  nor  leaves  the  judgment  free. 
'Tis  not  alone  the  grape's  enticing  juice 
Unnerves  the  moral  powers,  and  mars  their  use  * 
Ambition,  avarice,  and  the  lust  of  fame, 
And  woman,  lovely  woman,  does  the  same. 
The  heart,  surrendered  to  the  ruling  power 
Of  some  ungoverned  passion  every  hour, 
Finds,  by  degrees,  the  truths  that  once  bore  sway, 
And  all  their  deep  impression,  wear  away  ; 
So  coin  grows  smooth,  in  traffic  current  passed, 
Till  Caesar's  image  is  effaced  at  last. 

The  breach,  though  small  at  first,  soon  opening 
In  rushes  Folly  with  a  full  moon  tide, 
Then  welcome  errors,  of  whatever  size, 
To  justify  it  by  a  thousand  lies. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR.  109 

As  creeping  ivy  clings  to  wood  or  stone, 
And  hides  the  ruin  that  it  feeds  upon, 
So  sophistry  Heaves  close  to  and  protects 
Sin's  rotten  trunk,  concealing  its  defects. 
Mortals  whose  pleasures  are  their  only  care, 
First  wish  to  be  imposed  on,  and  then  are. 
And  lest  the  fulsome  artifice  should  fail, 
Themselves  will  hide  its  coarseness  with  a  veil. 
Not  more  industrious  are  the  just  and  true 
To  give  to  Virtue  what  is  Virtue's  due  : 
The  praise  of  wisdom,  comeliness,  and  worth, 
And  call  her  charms  to  public  notice  forth ; 
Than  Vice's  mean  and  disingenuous  race 
To  hide  the  shocking  features  of  her  face  ; 
Her  form  with  dross  and  lotion  they  repair, 
Then  kiss  their  idol,  and  pronounce  her  fair. 

The  sacred  implement  I  now  employ 
Might  prove  a  mischief,  or  at  best  a  toy  ; 
A  trifle  if  it  move  but  to  amuse  ; 
But  if  to  wrong  the  judgment  and  abuse, 
Worse  than  a  poniard  in  the  basest  hand, 
It  stabs  at  once  the  morals  of  a  land. 

Ye  writers  of  what  none  with  safety  reads, 
Footing  it  in  the  dance  that  fancy  leads, 
Ye  novelists,  who  mar  what  ye  would  mend, 
Snivelling  and  drivelling  folly  without  end, 
Whose  correspond! ng  misses  iill  the  ream 
With  sentimental  frippery  and  dream, 
Caught  in  a  delicate,  soft,  silken  net, 
By  some  lewd  earl,  or  rakehell  baro.net ; 
Ye  pimps,  who,  under  virtue's  fair  pretence, 
Steal  to  the  closet  of  young  innocence, 
And  teach  her,  inexperienced  yet  and  green, 
To  scribble  as  you  scribbled  at  fifteen  ; 
Who,  kindling  a  combustion  of  desire, 
With  some  cold  moral  think  to  quench  the  fire ; 
Though  all  your  engineering  proves  in  vain, 
The  dribbling  stream  ne'er  puts  it  out  again  : 
Oh  that  a  verse  had  power,  and  could  command 
Far,  far  away,  these  flesh-flies  of  the  land, 
Who  fasten  without  mercy  on  the  fair, 
And  suck  and  leave  a  craving  maggot  there ! 
Howe'er  disguised  the  inflammatory  tale, 
And  covered  with  a  fine-spun,  specious  veil, 
Such  writers,  and  such  readers,  owe  the  gust 
And  relish  of  their  pleasure  all  to  lust. 


HO  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 


But  the  Muse,  eagle-pinioned,  has  in  view 
A  quarry  more  important  still  than  you  ; 
Down,  down  the  wind,  she  swims,  and  sails  away, 
Now  stoops  upon  it,  and  now  grasps  the  prey. 

Petronius  !  *  all  the  Muses  weep  for  thee  ; 
But  every  tear  shall  scald  thy  memory  : 
The  Graces  too,  while  Virtue  at  their  shrine 
Lay  bleeding  under  that  soft  hand  of  thine, 
Felt  each  a  mortal  stab  in  her  own  breast, 
Abhorred  the  sacrifice,  arid  cursed  the  priest. 
Thou  polished  and  high-finished  foe  to  truth, 
Greybeard  corrupter  of  our  listening  youth, 
To  purge  and  skim  away  the  filth  of  vice, 
That,  so  refined,  it  might  the  more  entice. 
Then  pour  it  on  the  morals  of  thy  son, 
To  taint  his  heart,  was  worthy  of  thine  own  ! 
Now,  while  the  poison  all  high  life  pervades, 
Write,  if  thou  canst,  one  letter  from  the  shades, 
One,  and  one  only,  charged  with  deep  regret, 
That  thy  worst  part,  thy  principles,  live  yet ; 
One  sad  epistle  thence,  may  cure  mankind 
Of  the  plague  spread  by  bundles  left  behind. 

'Tis  granted,  and  no  plainer  truth  appears, 
Our  most  important  are  our  earliest  years ; 
The  Mind,  impressible  and  soft,  with  ease 
Imbibes  and  copies  what  she  hears  and  sees, 
And  through  life's  labyrinth  holds  fast  the  clue 
That  Education  gives  her,  false  or  true. 
Plants  raised  with  tenderness  are  seldom  strong : 
Man's  coltish  disposition  asks  the  thong, 
And  without  discipline  the  favorite  child, 
Like  a  neglected  forester,  runs  wild. 
But  we,  as  if  good  qualities  would  grow 
Spontaneous,  take  but  little  pains  to  sow  ', 
We  give  some  Latin,  and  a  smatch  of  Greek, 
Teach  him  to  fence  and  figure  twice  a  week, 
Arid  having  done,  we  think,  the  best  we  can, 
Praise  his  proficiency,  and  dub  him  man, 

From  school  to  Cam  or  Isis,  and  thence  home, 
And  thence  with  all  convenient  speed  to  Rome, 
With  reverend  tutor,  clad  in  habit  lay, 
To  tease  for  cash,  and  quarrel  with  all  day  ; 
With  memorandum-book  for  every  town, 
And  every  post,  and  where  the  chaise  broke  down  ; 

•Lord  Chesterfield,— Cowper  alludes  in  the  following  passage  to  the  "  Letters  t*  hi» 
Son." 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR.  1 1 1 

His  stock,  a  few  French  phrases  got  by  heart, 
With  much  to  learn,  but  nothing  to  impart, 
The  youth,  obedient  to  his  sire's  commands, 
Sets  off  a  wanderer  into  foreign  lands ; 
Surprised  at  all  they  meet,  the  gosling  pair, 
With  awkward  gait,  stretched  neck,  and  silly  stare, 
Discover  huge  cathedrals  built  with  stone, 
And  steeples  towering  high,  much  like  our  own, 
But  show  peculiar  light,  by  many  a  grin 
At  Popish  practices  observed  within. 

Ere  long  some  bowing,  smirking,  smart  Abbe 
Remarks  two  loiterers  that  have  lost  their  way, 
And  being  always  primed  with  politesse 
For  men  of  their  appearance  and  address, 
With  much  compassion  undertakes  the  task 
To  tell  them  more  than  they  have  wit  to  ask  ; 
Points  to  inscriptions  wheresoe'er  they  tread, 
Such  as,  when  legible,  were  never  read, 
But  being  cankered  now,  and  half  worn  out, 
Craze  antiquarian  brains  with  endless  doubt ; 
Some  headless  hero,  or  some  Caesar,  shows — 
Defective  only  in  his  Roman  nose ; 
Exhibits  elevations,  drawings,  plans, 
Models  of  Herculanean  pots  and  pans, 
And  sells  them  medals,  which,  if  neither  rare, 
Nor  ancient,  will  be  so,  jnvxTvcd  with  care. 

Strange  the  recital  I  from  whatever  cause 
His  great  improvement  and  new  lights  he  draws, 
The  squire,  once  bashful,  is  shamefaced  no  more, 
But  teems  with  powers  he  never  felt  before  ; 
Whether  increased  momentum,  and  the  force 
With  which  from  clime  to  clime  he  sped  his  course, 
As  axles  sometimes  kindle  as  they  go, 
Chafed  him,  and  brought  aull  nature  to  a  glow ; 
Or  whether  clearer  skies  and  softer  air, 
That  make  Italian  flowers  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Freshening  his  lazy  spirits  as  he  ran, 
Untolded  genially  and  spread  the  man, 
Returning,  he  proclaims,  by  many  a  grace, 
By  shrugs  and  strange  contortions  of  his  face, 
How  much  a  dunce  that  has  been  sent  to  roam, 
Excels  a  dunce  that  has  been  kept  at  home. 

Accomplishments  have  taken  Virtue's  place, 
And  Wisdom  falls  before  exterior  grace  ; 
We  slight  the  precious  kernel  of  the  stone, 
And  toil  to  polish  its  rough  coat  alone. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 


A  just  deportment,  manners  graced  with  ease, 

Elegant  phrase,  and  figure  formed  to  please, 

Are  qualities  that  seem  to  comprehend 

Whatever  parents,  guardian,  schools,  intend  ; 

Hence  an  unfurnished  and  a  listless  mind, 

Though  busy,  trifling  ;  empty,  though  refined  \ 

Hence  all  that  interferes,  and  dares  to  clash 

With  indolence  and  luxury,  is  trash  ; 

While  learning,  once  the  man's  exclusive  pride, 

Seems  verging  fast  towards  the  female  side, 

Learning  itself,  received  into  a  mind 

By  nature  weak,  or  viciously  inclined, 

Serves  but  to  lead  philosophers  astray, 

Where  children  would  with  ease  discern  the  way  ; 

And  of  all  arts  sagacious  dupes  invent, 

To  'cheat  themselves  and  gain  the  world's  assent 

The  worst  is  —  Scripture  warped  from  its  intent. 

The  carriage  bowls  along  and  all  are  pleased, 
If  Tom  be  sober,  and  the  wheels  well  greased, 
But  if  the  rogue  be  gone  a  cup  too  far, 
Left  out  his  linchpin,  or  forgot  his  tar,* 
It  suffers  interruption  arid  delay, 
And  meets  with  hindrance  in  the  smoothest  way. 
When  some  hypothesis  absurd  and  vain, 
Has  filled  with  all  its  fumes  a  critic's  brain, 
The  text  that  sorts  not  with  his  darling  whim, 
Though  plain  to  others,  is  obscure  to  him. 
The  Will  made  subject  to  a  lawless  force, 
All  is  irregular,  and  out  of  course, 
And  Judgment  drunk,  and  bribed  to  lose  his  way, 
Winks  hard,  and  talks  of  darkness  at  noonday. 

A  critic  on  the  sacred  book  should  be 
Candid  and  learned,  dispassionate  and  free  ; 
Free  from  the  wayward  bias  bigots  feel, 
From  Fancy's  influence,  and  intemperate  Zeal  ; 
But  above  all  (or  let  the  wretch  refrain, 
Nor  touch  the  page  he  cannot  but  profane), 
Free  from  the  domineering  power  of  Lust  ; 
A  lewd  interpreter  is  never  just. 

How  shall  I  speak  thee,  or  thy  power  address, 
Thou  god  of  our  idolatry,  the  Press  ? 
By  thee,  Religion,  Liberty,  and  Laws, 
Exert  their  influence,  and  advance  their  cause  : 

*  Wheels  were  greased  with  tar  in  the  days  of  Cowper  ;  the  coachman  was  expected 
Vo  take  some  with  him  on  a  journey. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR.  i  13 


By  thee,  worse  plagues  than  Pharaoh's  land  befell, 
Diffused,  make  Earth  the  vestibule  of  Hell ; 
Thou  fountain  at  which  drink  the  good  and  wise, 
Thou  ever  bubbling  spring  of  endless  lies, 
Like  Eden's  dread  probationary  tree, 
Knowledge  of  good  and  evil  is  from  thee. 

No  wild  enthusiast  ever  yet  could  rest, 
Till  half  mankind  were  like  himself  possessed. 
Philosophers,  who  darken  and  put  out 
Eternal  truth  by  everlasting  doubt, 
Church-quacks,  with  passions  under  no  command, 
Who  fill  the  world  with  doctrines  contraband, 
Discoverers  of  they  know  not  what,  confined 
Within  no  bounds — rhc  blind  that  lead  the  blind, 
To  streams  of  popular  opinion  drawn, 
Deposit  in  th<.s<«  shallows  all  their  spawn. 
The  wriggling  fry  soon  lill  the  creeks  around, 
Poisoning  the  wat.-rs  where  their  swarms  abound  ; 
Scorned  by  the  nobler  tenants  of  the  flood, 
Minnows  and  gudgeons  gorge  the  unwholesome  food  ; 
The  propagated  myriads  spread  so  fast, 
E'en  Leeuwenhoek*  himself  would  stand  aghast, 
Employed  to  calculate  the  enormous  sum, 
And  own  his  crab-computing  powers  o'ercome. 
Is  this  hyperbole  ?    The  world  well  known, 
Your  sober  thoughts  will  hardly  find  it  one. 

Fresh  confidence  the  speculatist  takes 
From  every  hair-brained  proselyte  he  makes, 
And  therefore  prints  ;  himself  but  half  deceived, 
Till  others  have  the  soothing  tale  believed. 
Hence  comment  after  comment,  spun  as  fine 
As  bloated  spiders  draw  the  flimsy  line  ; 
Hence  the  same  word,  that  bids  our  lusts  obey, 
Is  misapplied  to  sanctify  their  sway. 
If  stubborn  Greek  refuse  to  be  his  friend, 
Hebrew,  or  Syriac,  shall  be  forced  to  bend; 
If  languages  and  copies  all  cry  "No  1 ' 
Somebody  proved  it  centuries  ago. 
Like  trout  pursued,  the  critic  in  despair 
Darts  to  the  mud,  and  finds  his  safety  there. 
Women,  whom  custom  has  forbid  to  fly 
The  scholar's  pitch  (the  scholar  best  knows  why) 
With  all  the  simple  and  unlettered  poor, 
Admire  his  learning,  and  almost  adore  ; 

*  Antony  Von  Leeuwenhoek,  remarkable  for  the  observations  he  mad*  with  tk< 
microscope.    He  lived  from  1632  to  17^3. 

8 


114  THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 

Whoever  errs,  the  priest  can  ne'er  be  wrong, 
With  such  fine  words  familiar  to  his  tongue. 
Ye  ladies !  (for,  indifferent  in  your  cause, 
I  should  deserve  to  forfeit  all  applause) 
Whatever  shocks,  or  gives  the  least  offence 
To  virtue,  delicacy,  truth,  or  sense, 
(Try  the  criterion,  'tis  a  faithful  guide), 
Nor  has,  nor  can  have,  Scripture  on  its  side. 

None  but  an  author  knows  an  author's  cares, 
Or  Fancy's  fondness  for  the  child  she  bears. 
Committed  once  into  the  public  arms, 
The  baby  seems  to  smile  with  added  charms. 
Like  something  precious  ventured  far  from  shore, 
'Tis  valued  for  the  danger's  sake  the  more. 
He  views  it  with  complacency  supreme, 
Solicits  kind  attention  to  his  dream, 
And  daily  more  enamored  of  the  cheat, 
Kneels  and  asks  Heaven  to  bless  the  dear  deceit  \ 
So  one,*  whose  story  serves  at  least  to  show 
Men  loved  their  own  productions  long  ago, 
Wooed  an  unfeeling  statue  for  his  wife, 
Nor  rested  till  the  Grods  had  given  it  life. 
If  some  mere  driveller  suck  the  sugared  fib, 
One  that  still  needs  his  leading  string  and  bib, 
And  praise  his  genius,  he  is  soon  repaid 
In  praise  applied  to  the  same  part — his  head  ; 
For  'tis  a  rule  that  holds  forever  true, 
Grant  me  discernment,  and  I  grant  it  you. 

Patient  of  contradiction  as  a  child, 
Affable,  humble,  diffident,  and  mild, 
Such  was  Sir  Isaac,f  and  such  Boyle  and  Locke, 
Your  blunderer  is  as  sturdy  as  a  rock. 
The  creature  is  so  sure  to  kick  and  bite, 
A  muleteer's  the  man  to  set  him  right. 
First  Appetite  enlists  him  Truth's  sworn  foe, 
Then  obstinate  Self-will  confirms  him  so. 
Tell  him  he  wanders,  that  his  error  leads 
To  fatal  ills  j  that  though  the  path  he  treads 
Be  flowery,  and  he  see  no  cause  of  fear, 
Death  and  the  pains  of  Hell  attend  him  there ; 
In  vain  :  the  slave  of  arrogance  and  pride, 
He  has  no  hearing  on  the  prudent  side. 


*  Pygmalion,  a  sculptor  of  Cyprus,  who  fell  in  love  with  a  statue  he  had  made.    At 
his  request  Venus  endowed  it  with  life. 

t  Newton, 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR.  11$ 

His  still-refuted  quirks  he  still  repeats, 

New  raised  objections  with  new  quibbles  meets, 

Till  sinking  in  the  quicksand  he  defends, 

He  dies  disputing,  and  the  contest  ends  ; 

But  not  the  mischiefs  :  they  still  left  behind, 

Like  thistle-seeds,  are  sown  by  every  wind. 

Thus  men  go  wrong  with  an  ingenious  skill, 
Bend  the  straight  rule  to  their  own  crooked  will» 
And  with  a  clear  and  shining  lamp  supplied, 
First  put  it  out,  then  take  it  for  a  guide. 
Halting  on  crutches  of  unequal  size, 
One  leg  by  truth  supported,  one  by  lies, 
They  sidle  to  the  goal  with  awkward  pace, 
Secure  of  nothing,  but  to  lose  the  race. 

Faults  in  the  life  breed  errors  in  the  brain, 
And  these,  reciprocally,  those  again. 
The  mind  and  conduct  mutually  imprint 
And  stamp  their  image  in  each  other's  mint; 
Each  sire  and  dam,  of  an  infernal  rare. 
Begetting  and  conceiving  all  that's  l>a~'-. 

None  sends  his  arrow  to  the  mark  in  view, 
Whose  hand  is  feeble,  or  his  aim  untrue. 
For  though,  ere  yet  the  shaft  is  on  the  wing 
Or  when  it  first  forsakes  the  elastic  string, 
It  err  but  little  from  the  intended  line, 
It  falls  at  last,  far  wide  of  his  design  ; 
So  he  who  seeks  a  mansion  in  the  sky, 
Must  watch  his  purpose  with  a  stedfast  eye, 
That  prize  belongs  to  none  but  the  sincere, 
The  least  obliquity  is  fatal  here. 

With  caution  taste  the  sweet  Circean  cup, 
He  that  sips  often,  at  last  drinks  it  up. 
Habits  are  soon  assumed,  but  when  we  strive 
To  strip  them  off,  'tis  being  flayed  alive. 
Called  to  the  temple  of  impure  delight, 
He  that  abstains,  and  he  alone,  does  right. 
If  a  wish  wander  that  way,  call  it  home, 
He  cannot  long  be  safe  "whose  wishes  roam. 
But  if  you  pass  the  threshold,  you  are  caught, 
Die  then,  if  power  Almighty  save  you  not. 
There  hardening  by  degrees,  till  double  steeled, 
Take  leave  of  nature's  God,  and  God  revealed, 
Then  laugh  at  all  you  trembled  at  before, 
And  joining  the  freethinkers'  brutal  roar, 
Swallow  the  two  grand  nostrums  they  dispense — 
That  Scripture  lies,  and  blasphemy  is  sense. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  ERROR. 


If  clemency  revolted  by  abuse 

Be  damnable,  then  damned  without  excuse. 

Some  dream  that  they  can  silence,  when  they  will, 
The  storm  of  passion,  and  say,  "  Peace,  be  still! " 
But,  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther,"  when  addressed 
To  the  wild  wave,  or  wilder  human  breast, 
Implies  authority  that  never  can, 
That  never  ought  to  be  the  lot  of  man. 

But,  Muse,  forbear  ;  long  flights  forbode  a  fall, 
Strike  on  the  deep-toned  chord  the  sum  of  all. 

Hear  the  just  law — the  judgment  of  the  skies  1 
He  that  hates  truth  shall  be  the  dupe  of  lies ; 
And  he  that  will  be  cheated  to  the  last, 
Delusions  strong  as  Hell  shall  bind  him  fast. 
But  if  the  wanderer  his  mistake  discern, 
Judge  his  own  ways,  and  sigh  for  a  return, 
Bewildered  once,  must  he  bewail  his  loss 
Forever  and  forever  ?    No — the  Cross  ! 
There,  and  there  only  (though  the  deist  rave, 
And  atheist,  if  Earth  bear  so  base  a  slave), 
There,  and  there  only,  is  the  power  to  save. 
There  no  delusive  hope  invites  despair, 
No  mockery  meets  you,  no  deception  there  ; 
The  spells  and  charms  that  blinded  you  before, 
All  vanish  there,  and  fascinate  no  more. 

I  am  no  preacher ;  let  this  hint  suffice — 
The  Cross  once  seen  is  death  to  every  vice ; 
Else  He  that  hung  there  suffered  all  his  pain, 
Bled,  groaned,  and  agonized,  and  died  in  rain. 


TRUTH  117 


TRUTH. 

ARGUMENT. 

Die  pursuit  of  error  leads  to  destruction—Grace  leads  the  right  way— Its  direction 
despised— The  self-sufficient  Pharisee  compared  with  the  peacock— The  pheasant 
compared  with  the  Christian— Heaven  ahhors  affected  sanctity — The  hermit  and  his 
penances— The  self-torturing  Brahmin— Pride  the  ruling  principle  of  both— Picture 
of  a  sanctimonious  Prude — Picture  of  a  saiiit — Freedom  of  a  Christian — Importance 
of  motives,  illustrated  by  the  conduct  of  two  servants — The  traveller  overtaken  by  a 
storm  likened  to  the  sinner  dreading  the  vengeance  of  the  Almighty — Dangerous 
state  of  those  who  are  just  in  their  own  conceit — The  last  moments  of  the  infidel- 
Content  of  the  ignorant  but  believing  cottager — The  rich,  the  wise,  and  the  great, 
neglect  the  means  of  winning  heaven — Por?rty  the  soil  of  religion — What  man 
really  is,  and  what  in  his  own  esteem — Unbelief  often  terminates  in  suicide- 
Scripture  the  only  cure  of  woe — Pride  the  passion  TIH^:  hostile  to  truth — Dangc  *  of 
slighting  the  mercy  offered  by  the  Gospel— Plea  for  tin-  \i  IHOUS  heathen— (•  *  r 
mands  given  by  God  on  Sinai— The  judgment-day— Plea  of  the  believer. 

«'  Pensantur  trutinS.— Hon.,  lib.  ii.  Ep.  1. 

MAX  on  the  dubious  waves  of  error  toss'd, 
His  ship  half-founder'd  and  his  compass  lost, 
Sees,  far  as  human  optics  may  <-<>iiiinand, 
A  sleeping  fog,  and  fancies  it  dry  land  ; 
Spreads  all  his  canvas,  every  sinew  plies, 
Pants  for  it,  aims  at  it,  enters  it,  and  dies. 
Then  farewell  all  self-satisfying  schemes, 
His  well-built  systems,  philosophic  dreams, 
Deceitful  views  of  future  bliss,  farewell ! 
He  reads  his  sentence  at  the  flames  of  hell. 

Hard  lot  of  man  !  to  toil  for  the  reward 
Of  virtue,  and  yet  lose  it  1 — Wherefore  hard  ? 
He  that  would  win  the  race  must  guide  his  horse 
Obedient  to  the  customs  of  the  course, 
Else,  though  unequall'd  to  the  goal  he  flies, 
A  meaner  than  himself  shall  gain  the  prize. 
Grace  leads  the  right  way, — if  you  choose  the  wrong, 
Take  it,  and  perish,  but  restrain  your  tongue; 
Charge  not,  with  light  sufficient  and  left  free, 
Your  wilful  suicide  on  Gfod's  decree. 

Oh,  how  unlike  the  complex  works  of  man, 
Heaven's  easy,  artless,  unencumber'd  plan  I 
No  meretricious  graces  to  beguile, 
No  clustering  ornaments  to  clog  the  pile  ; 


Il8  TRUTH. 


From  ostentation  as  from  weakness  free, 

Tt  stands  like  the  cerulean  arch  we  see, 

Majestic  in  its  own  simplicity. 

Inscribed  above  the  portal,  from  afar 

Conspicuous  as  the  brightness  of  a  star, 

Legible  only  by  the  light  they  give, 

Stand  the  soul-quickening  words — BELIEVE,  AND  LIVE. 

Too  many,  shock'd  at  what  should  charm  them  most, 

Despise  the  plain  direction  and  are  lost. 

Heaven  on  such  terms  !  they  cry  with  proud  disdain, 

Incredible,  impossible,  arid  vain ! — 

Rebel  because  'tis  easy  to  obey, 

And  scorn  for  its  own  sake  the  gracious  way. 

These  are  the  sober,  in  whose  cooler  brains 

Some  thought  of  immortality  remains  ; 

The  rest,  too  busy  or  too  gay  to  wait 

On  the  sad  theme,  their  everlasting  state, 

Sport  for  a  day,  and  perish  in  a  night ; 

The  foam  upon  the  waters  not  so  light. 

Who  judged  the  Pharisee  ?    What  odious  cause 
Exposed  him  to  the  vengeance  of  the  laws  ? 
Had  he  seduced  a  virgin,  wrong'd  a  friend, 
Or  stabb'd  a  man  to  serve  some  private  end  ? 
Was  blasphemy  his  sin  ?     Or  did  he  stray 
From  tho  strict  duties  of  the  sacred  day  ? 
Sit  long  and  late  at  the  carousing  board  ? 
(Such  were  the  sins  with  which  he  charged  his  Lord.) 
No — the  man's  morals  were  exact.     What  then  ? 
'Twas  his  ambition  to  be  seen  of  men. 
His  virtues  were  his  pride  ;  and  that  one  vice 
Made  all  his  virtues  gewgaws  of  no  price ; 
He  wore  them  as  fine  trappings  for  a  show, 
A  praying,  synagogue-frequenting  beau. 

The  self-applauding  bird,  the  peacock,  see- 
Mark  what  a  sumptuous  pharisee  is  he  ! 
Meridian  sunbeams  tempt  him  to  unfold 
His  radiant  glories,  azure,  green,  and  gold : 
He  treads  as  if,  some  solemn  music  near, 
His  measured  step  were  govern'd  by  his  ear, 
And  seems  to  say — "  Ye  meaner  fowl,  give  placr  ; 
I  am  all  splendor,  dignity,  and  grace  1  ' 

Not  so  the  pheasant  on  his  charms  presumes, 
Though  he,  too,  has  a  glory  in  his  plumes. 
He,  Christian-like,  retreats  with  modest  mien 
To  the  close  copse  or  far-sequester 'd  green, 
And  shines  without  desiring  to  be  seen. 


TRUTH.  119 

The  plea  of  works,  as  arrogant  and  vain, 

Heaven  turns  from  with  abhorrence  and  dixlain  ; 

Not  more  affronted  by  avow'd  neglect, 

Than  by  the  mere  dissembler's  feign'd  respect. 

What  is  all  righteousness  that  men  devise 

What,  but  a  sordid  bargain  for  the  skies  ? 

But  Christ  as  soon  would  abdicate  His  own, 

As  stoop  from  heaven  to  sell  the  proud  a  throne. 

His  dwelling  a  recess  in  some  rude  rock  ; 
Book,  beads,  and  maple  dish,  his  meagre  stock  ; 
In  shirt  of  hair  and  weeds  of  canvas  dress'd, 
Girt  with  a  bell-rope  that  the  Pope  has  bless 'd  ; 
Adust  with  stripes  told  out  for  every  crime, 
And  sore  tormented,  long  before  his  time  ; 
His  prayer  preferred  to  saints  that  cannot  aid  ; 
His  praise  postponed,  and  never  to  he  paid  ; 
See  the  sage  hermit,  by  mankind  admired, 
With  all  that  l>m<>try  adopts  inspired, 
Wearing  out  life  in  his  religion-  whim, 
Till  his  religious  whimsy  wears  out  him. 
His  works,  his  abstinence,  his  zeal  allow'd, 
You  think  him  huml>le  -God  accounts  him  proud. 
High  in  demand,  though  knvly  in  pretence, 
Of  all  his  conduct  this  the  genuine  sense— 
"  My  penitential  stripes,  my  streaming  blood, 
Have  purchased  heaven,  and  prove  my  title  good." 

Turn  eastward  now,  and  fancy  shall  apply, 
To  your  weak  sight  her  telescopic  eye. 
The  Brahmin  kindles  011  his  own  bare  head 
The  sacred  fire,  self-torturing  his  trade  ; 
His  voluntary  pain-.  >.-vere  arid  long, 
Would  give  a  barbarous  air  to  British  song. 
No  grand  inquisitor  could  worse  invent 
Than  he  contrives  to  suffer,  well  content. 

Which  is  the  saintlier  worthy  of  the  two  ? 
Past  all  dispute,  yon  anchorite,  say  you. 
Your  sentence  and  mine  differ.     What's  a  name  ? 
I  say  the  Brahmin  has  the  fairer  claim. 
If  sufferings  Scripture  nowhere  recommends, 
Devised  by  self  to  answer  selfish  ends, 
Give  saintship,  then  all  Europe  must  agree 
Ten  starveling  hermits  suffer  less  than  he. 

The  truth  is,  (if  the  truth  may  suit  your  ear, 
And  prejudice  have  left  a  passage  clear,) 
Pride  has  attain'd  its  most  luxuriant  growth, 
And  poisori'd  every  virtue  in  them  both. 


120  TRUTH. 


Pride  may  be  pamper'd  while  the  flesh  grows  lean  ; 

Humility  may  clothe  an  English  dean  : 

That  grace  was  Cowper's  * — his,  confess'd  by  all — 

Though  placed  in  golden  Durham's  second  stall. 

Not  all  the  plenty  of  a  bishop's  board, 

His  palace,  and  his  lackeys,  and  "  my  Lord  !  ' 

More  nourish  pride,  that  condescending  vice, 

Than  abstinence,  and  beggary,  and  lice  ; 

It  thrives  in  misery,  and  abundant  grows, 

In  misery  fools  upon  themselves  impose. 

But  why  before  us  Protestants  produce 

An  Indian  mystic  or  a  French  recluse  ? 

Their  sin  is  plain  ;  but  what  have  we  to  fear, 

Reform'd  and  well  instructed  ?     You  shall  hear. 

Yon  ancient  prude, f  whose  wither'd  features  show 

She  might  be  young,  some  forty  years  ago, 

Her  elbows  pinion'd  close  upon  her  hips, 

Her  head  erect,  her  fan  upon  her  lips, 

Her  eyebrows  arch'd,  her  eyes  both  gone  astray 

To  watch  yon  amorous  couple  in  their  play, 

With  bony  and  unkerchief'd  neck  defies 

The  rude  inclemency  of  wintry  skies, 

And  sails  with  lappet  head  and  mincing  airs 

Duly  at  clink  of  bell  to  morning  prayers. 

To  thrift  and  parsimony  much  inclined, 

She  yet  allows  herself  that  boy  behind  ; 

The  shivering  urchin,  bending  as  he  goes, 

With  slipshod  heels,  and  dewdrop  at  his  nose, 

His  predecessor's  coat  advanced  to  wear, 

Which  future  pages  yet  are  doom'd  to  share, 

Carries  her  Bible  tuck'd  beneath  his  arm, 

And  hides  his  hands  to  keep  his  fingers  warm. 

She,  half  an  angel  in  her  own  account, 

Doubts  not  hereafter  with  the  saints  to  mount, 

Though  not  a  grace  appears  on  strictest  search; 

But  that  she  fasts,  and  item,  goes  to  church. 

Conscious  of  age,  she  recollects  her  youth, 

And  tells,  not  always  with  an  eye  to  truth, 

Who  spann'd  her  waist,  and  who,  where'er  he  came, 

Scrawl'd  upon  glass  Miss  Bridget's  lovely  name, 

Who  stole  her  slipper,  filled  it  with  tokay, 

And  drank  the  little  bumper  every  day. 

Of  temper  as  envenoin'd  as  an  asp, 

*  Spencer  Cowper,  second  cousin  of  the  poet.    He  was  Dean  of  Durham  from  1741 
to  his  death  in  1774. 

t  This  picture  is  taken  from  Hogarth's  "  Morning." 


TRUTH.  121 

Censorious,  and  her  every  word  a  wasp, 

In  faithful  memory  she  records  the  crimes, 

Or  real,  or  fictitious,  of  the  times 

Laughs  at  the  reputations  she  has  torn, 

And  holds  them  dangling  at  arm's  length  in  scorn. 

Such  are  the  fruits  of  sanctimonious  pride, 
Of  malice  fed  while  flesh  is  mortified  : 
Take,  madam,  the  reward  of  all  your  prayers, 
Where  hermits  and  where  Brahmins  meet  with  theirs ; 
Your  portion  is  with  them  ;  nay,  never  frown, 
But,  if  you  please,  some  fathoms  lower  down. 

Artist,  attend  ! — your  brushes  and  your  paint — 
Produce  them — take  a  chair — now  draw  a  Saint. 
Oh,  sorrowful  and  sad  !  the  streaming  tears 
Channel  her  cheeks — a  Niobe  appears  ! 
Is  this  a  saint?     Throw  tints  and  all  away — 
True  piety  is  cheerful  as  the  day, 
Will  weep,  indeed,  and  heave  a  pitying  groan 
For  other's  woes,  but  smiles  upon  her  own. 

What  purpose  has  the  King  of  saints  in  view? 
Why  falls  the  Grospel  like  a  gracious  dew? 
To  call  up  plenty  from  the  teeming  earth, 
Or  curse  the  desert  with  a  tenfold  dearth  ? 
Is  it  that  Adam's  offspring  may  be  saved 
From  servile  fear,  or  be  the  more  enslaved  ? 
To  loose  the  links  that  gall'd  mankind  before, 
Or  bind  them  faster  on,  and  add  still  more  ? 
The  free-born  Christian  has  no  chains  to  prove, 
Or,  if  a  chain,  the  golden  one  of  love  : 
No  fear  attends  to  quench  his  glowing  fires, 
What  fear  he  feels  his  gratitude  inspires. 
Shall  he,  for  such  deliverance  freely  wrought, 
Recompense  ill  ?     He  trembles  at  the  thought. 
His  master's  interest  and  his  own  combined 
Prompt  every  movement  of  his  heart  and  mind  : 
Thought,  word,  and  deed,  his  liberty  evince, 
His  freedom  is  the  freedom  of  a  prince. 

Man's  obligations  infinite,  of  course 
His  life  should  prove  that  he  perceives  their  force ; 
His  utmost  he  can  render  is  but  small, 
The  principle  arid  motive  all  in  all. 
You  have  two  servants, — Tom,  an  arch  sly  rogue 
From  top  to  toe  the  Geta*  now  in  vogue, 

*  Geta  was  a  roguish  servant  in  two  of  Terence's  comedies.    Moliere's  "  Scaptn" 
answers  to  hirn. 


122  TRUTH. 

Genteel  in  figure,  easy  in  address, 

Moves  without  noise,  and  swift  as  an  express, 

Reports  a  message  with  a  pleasing  grace, 

Expert  in  all  the  duties  of  his  place ; 

Say,  on  what  hinge  does  his  obedience  move  ? 

Has  he  a  world  of  gratitude  and  love? 

No,  not  a  spark, — 'tis  all  mere  sharper's  play  ; 

He  likes  your  house,  your  housemaid,  and  your  pay; 

Reduce  his  wages,  or  get  rid  of  her, 

Tom  quits  you,  with — "  Your  most  obedient,  sir." 

The  dinner  served,  Charles  takes  his  usual  stand, 
Watches  your  eye,  anticipates  command, 
Sighs,  if  perhai^s  your  appetite  should  fail, 
And  if  he  but  suspects  a  frown,  turns  pale ; 
Consults  all  day  your  interest  and  your  ease, 
Richly  rewarded  if  he  can  but  please, 
And,  proud  to  make  his  firm  attachment  known, 
To  save  your  life  would  nobly  risk  his  own. 

Now  which  stands  highest  in  your  serious  thought  ? 
Charles,  without  doubt,  say  you — and  so  he  ought ; 
One  act,  that  from  a  thankful  heart  proceeds, 
Excels  ten  thousand  mercenary  deeds. 
Thus  Heaven  approves  as  honest  and  sincere 
The  work  of  generous  love  and  filial  fear  ; 
But  with  averted  eyes  the  omniscient  Judge 
Scorns  the  base  hireling  and  the  slavish  drudge. 

Where  dwell  these  matchless  saints  ?  old  Curio  cries 
Even  at  your  side,  sir,  and  before  your  eyes : 
The  favor'd  few — the  enthusiasts  you  despise. 
And  pleased  at  heart  because  on  holy  ground 
Sometimes  a  canting  hypocrite  is  found, 
Reproach  a  people  with  his  single  fall, 
And  cast  his  filthy  raiment  at  them  all. 
Attend, — an  apt,  similitude  shall  show 
Whence  springs  the  conduct  that  offends  you  so. 

See  where  it  smokes  along  the  sounding  plain, 
Blown  all  aslant,  a  driving,  dashing  rain, 
Peal  upon  peal  redoubling  all  around, 
Shakes  it  again  and  faster  to  the  ground  ; 
Now,  flashing  wide,  now  glancing  as  in  play, 
Swift  beyond  thought  the  lightnings  dart  away. 
Ere  yet  it  came  the  traveller  urged  his  steed, 
And  hurried,  but  with  unsuccessful  speed  ; 
Now  drench'd  throughout,  and  hopeless  of  his  case, 
He  drops  the  rein,  and  leaves  him  to  his  pace. 
Suppose,  unlook'd  for  in  a  scene  so  rude, 


TRUTH.  123 


Long  hid  by  interposing  hill  or  wood, 
Some  mansion  neat  and  elegantly  dress'd, 
By  some  kind  hospitable  heart  possess'd, 
Offer  him  warmth,  security,  and  rest ; 
Think,  with  what  pleasure,  safe,  and  at  his  ease, 
fie  hears  the  tempest  howling  in  the  trees. 
What  glowing  thanks  his  lips  and  heart  employ, 
While  danger  past  is  turn'd  to  present  joy. 
So  fares  it  with  the  sinner,  when  he  feels 
A  growing  dread  of  vengeance  at  his  heels  : 
His  conscience,  like  a  glassy  lake  before, 
1/ish'd  into  foaming  waves,  begins  to  roar ; 
The  law  grown  clamorous,  though  silent  long, 
Arraigns  him,  charges  him  with  every  wrong, 
Asserts  the  right  of  his  offended  Lord, 
And  death,  or  restitution,  is  the  word  : 
The  last  impossible,  he  fears  the  first, 
And,  having  well  deserved,  expects  the  worst. 
Then  welcome  refuge  and  a  peaceful  home, 
Oh  for  a  shelter  from  the  wrath  to  come ! 
Crush  me,  ye  rocks  !  ye  falling  mountains,  hide  I 
Or  bury  me  in  ocean's  angry  tide  ! — 
The  scrutiny  of  those  all-seeing  eyes 
I  dare  not — And  you  need  not,  God  replies  ; 
The  remedy  you  want  I  freely  give  ; 
The  Book  shall  teach  you — read,  believe,  and  live! 
'Tis  done — the  raging  storm  is  heard  no  more, 
Mercy  receives  him  on  her  peaceful  shore, 
And  Justice,  guardian  of  the  dread  command, 
Drops  the  red  vengeance  from  his  willing  hand, 
A  soul  redeem' d  demands  a  life  of  praise  ; 
Hence  the  complexion  of  his  future  days, 
Hence  a  demeanor  holy  and  unspeck'd, 
And  the  world's  hatred,  as  its  sure  effect. 
Some  lead  a  life  unblameable  and  just, 
Their  own  dear  virtue  their  unshaken  trust: 
They  never  sin — or  if  (as  all  offend) 
Some  trivial  slips  their  daily  walk  attend, 
The  poor  are  near  at  hand,  the  charge  is  small, 
A  light  gratuity  atones  for  all. 
For  though  the  Pope  has  lost  his  interest  here, 
And  pardons  are  not  sold  as  once  they  were, 
No  Papist  more  desirous  to  compound, 
Than  some  grave  sinners  upon  English  ground. 
That  plea  refuted,  other  quirks  they  seek — 
Mercy  is  infinite,  and  man  is  weak ; 


124  TRUTH. 


The  future  shall  obliterate  the  past, 

And  Heaven  no  doubt  shall  be  their  home  at  last. 

Come,  then — a  still,  small  whisper  in  your  ear — 
He  has  no  hope  who  never  had  a  fear  ; 
Arid  he  that  never  doubted  of  his  state, 
He  may  perhaps — perhaps  he  may — too  late. 

The  path  to  bliss  abounds  with  many  a  snare  ; 
Learning  is  one,  and  wit,  however  rare. 
The  Frenchman,  first  in  literary  fame, 
(Mention  him,  if  you  please.     Voltaire?    The  same,) 
With  spirit,  genius,  eloquence  supplied, 
Lived  long,  wrote  much,  laugh'd  heartily,  and  died ; 
The  Scripture  was  his  jest-book,  whence  he  drew 
Bon-mots  to  gall  the  Christian  and  the  Jew  ; 
An  infidel  in  health,  but  what  when  sick  ? 
Oh — then  a  text  would  touch  him  to  the  quick  j 
View  him  at  Paris  in  his  last  career, 
Surrounding  throngs  the  demigod  revere  ; 
Exalted  on  his  pedestal  of  pride, 
Arid  fumed  with  frankincense  on  every  side, 
He  begs  their  flattery  with  his  latest  breath, 
And  smother'd  in  't  at  last,  is  praised  to  death. 

Yon  cottager,  who  weaves  at  her  own  door, 
Pillow  and  bobbins  all  her  little  store  ; 
Content  though  mean,  and  cheerful  if  not  gay, 
Shuffling  her  threads  about  the  livelong  day, 
Just  earns  a  scanty  pittance,  and  at  night 
Lies  down  secure,  her  heart  and  pocket  light ; 
She,  for  her  humble  sphere  by  nature  fit, 
Has  little  understanding,  and  no  wit  ; 
Receives  no  praise,  but,  though  her  lot  be  such, 
(Toilsome  and  indigent,)  she  renders  much  ; 
Just  knows,  and  knows  no  more,  her  Bible  true — 
A  truth  the  brilliant  Frenchman  never  knew  ; 
And  in  that  charter  reads,  with  sparkling  eyes, 
Her  title  to  a  treasure  in  the  skies. 

O  happy  peasant !     O  unhappy  bard  ! 
His  the  mere  tinsel,  hers  the  rich  reward  ; 
He  praised  perhaps  for  ages  yet  to  come, 
She  never  heard  of  half  a  mile  from  hone  : 
He  lost  in  errors  his  vain  heart  prefers, 
She  safe  in  the  simplicity  of  hers. 

Not  many  wise,  rich,  noble,  or  profound 
In  science,  win  one  inch  of  heavenly  ground  : 
And  is  it  not  a  mortifying  thought 
The  poor  should  gain  it,  and  the  rich  should  not? 


TRUTH.  12$ 


No — the  voluptuaries,  who  ne'er  forget 
One  pleasure  lost,  lose  heaven  without  regret ; 
Regret  would  rouse  them,  and  give  birth  to  prayer, 
Prayer  would  add  faith,  and  faith  would  fix  them  there 

Not  that  the  Former  of  us  all  in  this, 
Or  aught  He  does,  is  govern'd  by  caprice  ; 
The  supposition  is  replete  with  sin, 
And  bears  the  brand  of  blasphemy  burnt  in. 
Not  so — the  silver  trumpet's  heavenly  call 
S'.  Minis  for  the  poor  but  sounds  alike  for  all ; 
Kings  are  invited,  and  would  kings  obey, 
No  slaves  on  earth  more  welcome  were  than  they  ; 
But  royalty,  nobility,  and  state, 
Are  such  a  dead  preponderating  weight, 
That  endless  bliss,  (how  strange  soe'er  it  seem,) 
In  counterpoise  flies  up  and  kicks  the  beam. 
'Tis  open,  and  ye  cannot  enter — why  ? 
Because  ye  will  not,  Conyers*  would  reply — 
And  he  says  much  that  many  may  dispute 
And  cavil  at  with  ease,  but  none  refute. 
Oh,  bless'd  effect  of  penury  and  want, 
The  seed  sown  there,  how  vigorous  is  the  plant  I 
No  soil  like  poverty  for  growth  divine, 
As  leanest  land  supplies  the  richest  wine. 
Earth  gives  too  little,  giving  only  bread, 
To  nourish  pride,  or  turn  the  weakest  head  : 
To  them  the  sounding  jargon  of  the  schools 
Seems  what  it  is — a  cap  and  bells  for  fools  : 
The  light  they  walk  by,  kindled  from  above, 
Shows  them  the  shortest  way  to  life  arid  love : 
They,  strangers  to  the  controversial  field, 
Where  deists,  always  foil'd,  yet  scorn  to  yield, 
And  never  check'd  by  what  impedes  the  wise, 
Believe,  rush  forward,  and  possess  the  prize. 

Envy,  ye  great,  the  dull  unletter'd  small : 
Ye  have  much  cause  for  envy — but  not  all. 
We  boast  some  rich  ones  whom  the  gospel  sways, 
And  one  f  who  wears  a  coronet  and  prays  ; 
Like  gleanings  of  an  orange-tree,  they  show 
Here  and  there  one  upon  the  topmost  bough. 

How  readily,  upon  the  gospel  plan, 
That  question  has  its  answer, — What  is  man  ? 
Sinful  and  weak,  in  every  sense  a  wretch, 
An  instrument  whose  chords  upon  the  stretch, 

*  Dr.  B.  Conyers,  rector  of  S.  Paul's,  Deptford,  a  celebrated  evangelical  clergyman. 
t  William  Earl  of  Dartmouth,  Newton's  patron. 


126  TRUTH. 


And  strain'd  to  the  last  screw  that  he  can  bear, 
Yield  only  discord  in  his  Maker's  ear  ; 
Once  the  blest  residence  of  truth  divine, 
Glorious  as  Solyina's  interior  shrine, 
Where,  in  his  own  oracular  abode, 
Dwelt  visibly  the  light-creating  God ; 
But  made  long  since,  like  Babylon  of  old, 
A  din  of  mischiefs  never  to  be  told  : 
And  she,  once  mistress  of  the  realms  around, 
Now  scatter 'd  wide  and  nowhere  to  be  found, 
As  soon  shall  rise  and  reascend  the  throne, 
By  native  power  and  energy  her  own, 
As  nature,  at  her  own  peculiar  cost, 
Restored  to  man  the  glories  he  has  lost. 
Go,  bid  the  winter  cease  to  chill  the  year, 
Replace  the  wandering  comet  in  his  sphere, 
Then  boast,  (but  wait  for  that  unhoped-for  hour) 
The  self-restoring  arm  of  human  power. 
But  what  is  man  in  his  own  proud  esteem  ? 
Hear  him,  himself  the  poet  and  the  theme : 
A  monarch  clothed  with  majesty  and  awe, 
His  mind,  his  kingdom,  and  his  will  his  law  ; 
Grace  in  his  mien,  and  glory  in  his  eyes, 
Supreme  on  earth,  and  worthy  of  the  skies, 
Strength  in  his  heart,  dominion  in  his  nod, 
And,  thunderbolts  excepted,  quite  a  god  ! 

So  sings  he,  charm'd  with  his  own  mind  and  form, 
The  song  magnificent — the  theme  a  worm  ! 
Himself  so  much  the  source  of  his  delight, 
His  Maker  has  no  beauty  in  his  sight. 
See  where  he  sits,  contemplative  and  fixed, 
Pleasure  and  wonder  in  his  features  mix'd, 
His  passions  tamed  and  all  at  his  control, 
How  perfect  the  composure  of  his  soul ! 
Complacency  has  breathed  a  gentle  gale 
O'er  all  his  thoughts,  and  swell'd  his  easy  sail. 
His  books  well  trim'd  and  in  the  gayest  style, 
Like  regimental  coxcombs  rank  and  file, 
Adorn  his  intellects  as  well  as  shelves, 
And  teach  him  notions  splendid  as  themselves  : 
The  Bible  only  stands  neglected  there, 
Though  that  of  all  most  worthy  of  his  care  ; 
And,  like  an  infant  troublesome  awake, 
Is  left  to  sleep  for  peace  and  quiet  sake. 

What  shall  the  man  deserve  of  humankind, 
Whose  happy  skill  and  industry  combined 


TRUTH.  127 


Shall  prove  (what  argument  could  never  yet) 

The  Bible  an  imposture  and  a  cheat  ? 

The  praises  of  the  libertine  profess'd, 

The  worst  of  men,  and  curses  of  the  best. 

Where  should  the  living,  weeping  o'er  his  woes. 

The  dying,  trembling  at  the  awful  close, 

Where  the  betray 'd,  forsaken,  and  oppress'd, 

The  thousands  whom  the  world  forbids  to  rest, 

Where  should  they  find,  (those  comforts  at  an  end 

The  Scripture  yields,)  or  hope  to  find  a  friend  ? 

Sorrow  might  muse  herself  to  madness  then, 

And,  seeking  exile  from  the  sight  of  men, 

Bury  herself  in  solitude  profound, 

Grow  frantic  with  her  pangs,  and  bite  the  ground. 

Thus  often  Unbelief,  grown  sick  of  life, 

Flies  to  the  tempting  pool  or  felon  knife ; 

The  jury  meet,  the  coroner  is  short, 

And  lunacy  the  verdict  of  the  court. 

Reverse  the  sentence,  let  the  truth  be  known, 

Such  lunacy  is  ignorance  alone ; 

They  know  not,  what  some  bishops  may  not  know, 

That  Scripture  is  the  only  cure  of  woe : 

That  field  of  promise,  how  it  flings  abroad 

Its  odor  o'er  the  Christian's  thorny  road  I 

The  soul,  reposing  on  assured  relief, 

Feels  herself  happy  amidst  all  her  grief, 

Forgets  her  labor  as  she  toils  along, 

Weeps  tears  of  joy,  and  bursts  into  a  song. 

But  the  same  word  that,  like  the  polish'd  share 
Ploughs  up  the  roots  of  a  believer's  care, 
Kills  too  the  flowery  weeds,  where'er  they  grow, 
That  bind  the  sinner's  bacchanalian  brow. 
Oh,  that  unwelcome  voice  of  heavenly  love, 
Sad  messenger  of  mercy  from  above, 
How  does  it  grate  upon  his  thankless  ear, 
Crippling  his  pleasures  with  the  cramp  of  fear  1 
His  will  arid  judgment  at  continual  strife, 
That  civil  war  embitters  all  his  life  1 
In  vain  he  points  his  powers  against  the  skies. 
In  vain  he  closes  or  averts  his  eyes, 
Truth  will  intrude — she  bids  him  yet  beware — 
And  shakes  the  skeptic  in  the  scorner's  chair, 
Though  various  foes  against  the  Truth  combine, 
Pride  above  all  opposes  her  design  : 
Pride,  of  a  growth  superior  to  the  rest, 
The  subtlest  serpent  with  the  loftiest  crest, 


r28  TRUTH. 


Swells  at  the  thought,  and,  kindling  into  rage, 
Would  hiss  the  cherub  Mercy  from  the  stage. 

And  is  the  soul  indeed  so  lost  ? — she  cries. 
Fallen  from  her  glory,  arid  too  weak  to  rise  ? 
Torpid  and  dull  beneath  a  frozen  zone, 
Has  she  no  spark  that  may  be  deem'd  her  own  ? 
Grant  her  indebted  to  what  zealots  call, 
Grace  undeserved,  yet  surely  not  for  all ; 
Some  beams  of  rectitude  she  yet  displays, 
Some  love  of  virtue,  and  some  power  to  praise 
Can  lift  herself  above  corporeal  things, 
And,  soaring  on  her  own  unborrow'd  wings, 
Possess  herself  of  all  that's  good  or  true, 
Assert  the  skies,  and  vindicate  her  due. 
Past  indiscretion  is  a  venial  crime  ; 
Arid  if  the  youth,  unmellow'd  yet  by  time. 
Bore  on  his  branch,  luxuriant  then  and  rude, 
Fruits  of  a  blighted  size,  austere  arid  crude, 
Maturer  years  shall  happier  stores  produce, 
And  meliorate  the  well-concocted  juice. 
Then,  conscious  of  her  meritorious  zeal, 
To  Justice  she  may  make  a  bold  appeal, 
And  leave  to  Mercy,  with  a  tranquil  mind, 
The  worthless  and  unfruitful  of  mankind. 
Hear,  then,  how  Mercy,  slighted  arid  defied, 
Retorts  the  affront  against  the  crown  of  Pride. 

Perish  the  virtue,  as  it  ought,  abhorr'd, 
And  the  fool  with  it  who  insults  his  Lord. 
The  atonement  a  Redeemer's  love  has  wrought 
Is  not  for  you — the  righteous  need  it  not. 
Seest  thou  yon  harlot,  wooing  all  she  meets, 
The  worn-out  nuisance  of  the  public  streets, 
Herself  from  morn  to  night,  from  night  to  morn, 
Her  own  abhorrence,  and  as  much  your  scorn  : 
The  gracious  shower,  unlimited  and  free, 
Shall  fall  on  her,  when  Heaven  denies  it  thee, 
Of  all  that  wisdom  dictates,  this  the  drift — 
That  man  is  dead  in  sin,  and  life  a  gift. 

Is  virtue,  then,  unless  of  Christian  growth, 
Mere  fallacy,  or  foolishness,  or  both  ? 
Ten  thousand  sages  lost  in  endless  woe, 
For  ignorance  of  what  they  could  not  know  ? 
That  speech  betrays  at  once  a  bigot's  tongue  ; 
Charge  riot  a  God  with  such  outrageous  wrong ! 
Truly,  not  I — the  partial  light  men  have, 
My  creed  persuades  me,  well  einploy'd,  may  save 


TRtfTH.  129 

While  he  that  scorns  the  noonday  beam,  perverse, 

Shall  find  the  blessing  unimproved  a  curse. 

Let  heathen  worthies,  whose  exalted  mind 

Left  sensuality  and  dross  behind, 

Possess  for  me  their  undisputed  lot, 

And  take  unenvied  the  reward  they  sought. 

But  still  in  virtue  of  a  Saviour's  plea, 

Not  blind  by  choice,  but  destined  not  to  see. 

Their  fortitude  and  wisdom  were  a  flame, 

Celestial,  though  they  knew  not  whence  it  came, 

Derived  from  the  same  source  of  light  and  grace, 

That  guides  the  Christian  in  his  swifter  race, 

Their  judge  was  conscience,  and  her  rule  their  law: 

That  rule,  pursued  with  reverence  and  with  awe, 

Led  them,  however  faltering,  faint  and  slow, 

From  what  they  knew  to  what  they  wish'd  to  know. 

But  let  not  him  that  shares  a  brighter  day, 

Traduce  the  splendor  of  a  noontide  ray, 

Prefer  the  twilight  of  a  darker  time, 

And  deem  his  base  stupidity  no  crime ; 

The  wretch,  who  slights  the  bounty  of  the  skies, 

And  sinks  while  favor'd  with  the  means  to  rise, 

Shall  find  them  rated  at  their  full  amount, 

The  good  he  sn.m'd  all  carried  to  account. 

Marshalling  all  His  terrors  as  lie  came, 
Thunder,  and  earthquake,  and  devouring  flame, 
From  Sinai's  top  Jehovah  gave  the  law- 
Life  for  obedience,  death  for  every  flaw. 
When  the  great  Sovereign  would  His  will  express, 
He  gives  a  perfect  rule,  what  can  He  less  ? 
And  guards  it  with  a  sanction  as  severe 
As  vengeance  can  inflict,  or  sinners  fear  : 
Else  His  own  glorious  rights  He  would  disclaim, 
And  man  might  safely  trifle  with  his  name. 
He  bids  him  glow  with  unremitting  love 
To  all  on  earth,  and  to  Himself  above  ; 
Condemns  the  injurious  deed,  the  slanderous  tongue, 
The  thought  that  meditates  a  brother's  wrong  : 
Brings  not  alone  the  more  conspicuous  part, 
His  conduct,  to  the  test,  but  tries  his  heart. 

Hark  !  universal  nature  shook  and  groan'd, 
'Twas  the  last  trumpet — see  the  Judge  enthroned ! 
Rouse  all  your  courage  at  your  utmost  need, 
Now  summon  every  virtue,  stand  and  plead. 
What !  silent  ?     Is  your  boasting  heard  no  more? 
That  self-renouncing  wisdom,  learn'd  before, 


130  TRUTH. 


Had  shed  immortal  glories  on  your  brow, 
That  all  your  virtues  cannot  purchase  now. 

All  joy  to  the  believer  !     He  can  speak, 
Trembling  yet  happy,  confident  yet  meek. 
"  Since  the  dear  hour  that  brought  me  to  Thy  foot, 
And  cut  up  all  my  follies  by  the  root, 
I  never  trusted  in  an  arm  but  Thine, 
Nor  hoped  but  in  Thy  righteousness  divine : 
My  prayers  and  alms,  imperfect  and  defiled, 
Were  but  the  feeble  efforts  of  a  child  ; 
Howe'er  perform'd,  it  was  their  brightest  part, 
That  they  proceeded  from  a  grateful  heart ; 
Cleansed  in  thine  own  all-purifying  blood, 
Forgive  their  evil,  and  accept  their  good  : 
I  cast  them  at  Thy  feet — my  only  plea 
Is  what  it  was,  dependance  upon  Thee  : 
While  struggling  in  the  vale  of  tears  below, 
That  never- faiPd,  nor  shall  it  fail  me  now." 

Angelic  gratulations  rend  the  skies, 
Pride  falls  unpitied,  never  more  to  rise, 
Humility  is  crown' d,  and  Faith  receives  the  prize. 


TABLE  TALK.  131 


TABLE   TALK. 


ARGUMENT. 

-'aLie  glory— Attributes  of  royalty  in  England — Quevedo's  satire  on  kings— Kings 
objects  of  pity— Inquiry  concerning  the  cause  or  Englishmen*!  scorn  of  Arbitrary 
rule—  character  of  the  English  ami  the  French— Freedom— Freedo»  soiiu-tiin<  .- 
11. '.'.Is  the  restraints  of  discipline — Reference  to  the  (Jordon  riots  in  London  — Lord 
Chatham— Political  state  of  England— The  vices  that  debase  her  j«>i-tend  her 
d  >\vn. all— Political  events  the  instruments  of  PrOYidence— The  poet  disclaims 
prophetic  inspiration— The  elioice  of  a  subject — Reference  t<>  Jlomer,  Virgil,  and 
Milton  —Progress  <.f  poetry— The  poet  laments  that  religion  is  not  more  frequently 
unit-  d  with  poetry. 

"  Si  te  fortd  me»  gravis  uret  sarcina  charts, 
Abjicito."  HOR.  lib.  i.  Ep.  13. 

A.  You  told  me,  I  reineml>er,  glory,  built 
On  selfish  principles,  is  .-liunio  ami  guilt: 
The  <1> •<•(!>  that  men  admire  as  half  divine, 
Stark  naught,  because  corrupt  in  their  design. 
Strange  doctrine  this  !  that  without  scruple  tear- 
The  laurel  that  the  very  lightning  spares  j* 
Brings  down  the  warrior's  trophy  to  the  dust, 
And  eats  into  his  bloody  sword  like  rust. 

B.  I  grant  that  men,  continuing  what  they  are, 
Fierce,  avaricious,  proud,  there  must  be  war  ; 
And  never  meant  the  rule  should  be  applied 

To  him  that  fights  with  justice  on  his  side. 

Let  laurels  drench'd  in  pure  Parnassian  dews 
Reward  his  memory,  dear  to  every  muse, 
Who,  with  a  courage  of  unshaken  root, 
In  honor's  field  advancing  his  firm  foot, 
Plants  it  upon  the  line  that  Justice  draws, 
And  will  prevail  or  perish  in  her  cause. 
'Tis  to  the  virtues  of  such  men.  man  owes 
His  portion  in  the  good  that  Heaven  bestows  ; 
And  when  recording  History  displays 
Feats  of  renown,  though  wrought  in  ancient  days, 
Tells  of  a  few  stout  hearts  that  fought  and  died 
Where  duty  placed  them,  at  their  country's  side, 


•There  is  an  old  superstition  that  lightning  never  strikes  the  laurel-tree.    Perhapi 
proceeded  from  the  idea  of  the  beatheu  that  the  tree  was  consecrated  to  Apollo, 


132  TABLE  TALK. 


The  man  that  is  not  moved  with  what  he  reads, 
That  takes  not  fire  at  their  heroic  deeds, 
Unworthy  of  the  blessings  of  the  brave, 
Is  base  in  kind,  and  born  to  be  a  slave. 

But  let  eternal  infamy  pursue 
The  wretch,  to  nought  but  his  ambition  true, 
Who,  for  the  sake  of  filling  with  one  blast 
The  post-horns  of  all  Europe,  lays  her  waste. 
Think  yourself  station'd  on  a  towering  rock, 
To  see  a  people  scatter'd  like  a  flock, 
Some  royal  mastiff  panting  at  the  heels, 
With  all  the  savage  thirst  a  tiger  feels  ; 
Then  view  him  self-proclaimed  in  a  gazette 
Chief  monster  that  has  plagued  the  nations  yet ! 
The  globe  and  sceptre  in  such  hands  misplaced, 
Those  ensigns  of  dominion,  how  disgraced  ! 
The  glass  that  bids  man  mark  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  Death's  own  scythe,  would  better  speak  his  power. 
Then  grace  the  bony  phantom  in  their  stead 
With  the  king's  shoulderknot  and  gay  cockade  ; 
Clothe  the  twin  brethren  in  each  other's  dress, 
The  same  their  occupation  and  success. 

A.  Tis  your  belief  the  world  was  made  for  man  ; 
Kings  do  but  reason  on  the  self-same  plan  : 
Maintaining  yours,  you  cannot  theirs  condemn, 
Who  think,  or  seem  to  think,  man  made  for  them. 

B.  Seldom,  alas  !  the  power  of  logic  reigns 
With  much  sufficiency  in  royal  brains  ; 
Such  reasoning  falls  like  an  inverted  cone, 
Wanting  its  proper  base  to  stand  upon. 

Man  made  for  kings  !  those  optics  are  but  dim 
That  tell  you  so — say,  rather,  they  for  him. 
That  were  indeed  a  king-ennobling  thought, 
Could  they,  or  would  they,  reason  as  they  ought. 
The  diadem,  with  mighty  projects  lined, 
To  catch  renown  by  ruining  mankind, 
Is  worth,  with  all  its  gold  and  glittering  store, 
Just  what  the  toy  will  sell  for,  and  no  more. 

Oh  !  bright  occasions  of  dispensing  good, 
How  seldom  used,  how  little  understood  ! 
To  pour  in  Virtue's  lap  her  just  reward  ; 
Keep  Vice  restrain'd  behind  a  double  guard ; 
To  quell  the  faction  that  affronts  the  throne 
By  silent  magnanimity  alone  ; 
To  nurse  with  tender  care  the  thriving  arts, 
Watch  every  beam  philosophy  imparts  ; 


TABLE  TALK.  133 


To  give  Religion  her  unbridled  scope, 

Nor  judge  by  statute  a  believer's  hope  ; 

With  close  fidelity  and  love  unfeigned 

To  keep  the  matrimonial  bond  unstain'd ; 

Covetous  only  of  a  virtuous  praise  ; 

His  life  a  lesson  to  the  land  he  sways  ; 

To  touch  the  sword  with  conscientious  awe, 

Nor  draw  it  but  when  duty  bids  him  draw ; 

To  sheath  it  in  the  peace-restoring  close 

With  joy  beyond  what  victory  bestows— 

Blest  country  !   where  these  kingly  glories  shine  ; 

Ble.-t  Knglaiid  !  If  this  happiness  be  thine. 

A.  Guard  what  you  say  :  the  patriotic  tribe 
Will  sneer,  and  charge  you  with  a  bribe. 

B.  A  bribe  F 
The  worth  of  his  three  kingdoms  I  defy, 

To  lure  me  to  the  baseness  of  a  lie ; 

And,  of  all  lies,  (bo  that  cut-  poet's  boast,) 

The  lie  that  flatters  I  ahhor  the  most. 

Those  arts  be  theirs  that  hate  his  gentle  reign, 

But  he  that  loves  him  has  no  need  to  feign. 

A.  Your  smooth  eulogium,  to  one  crown  address'd, 
Seems  to  imply  a  censure  on  the  n 

//.   (.JueYedo. '  a  •  he  tells  Iii>  sober  tale. 
Ask'd  when  in  hell  to  >••••  the  royal  jail  ; 
Approv'd  their  method  in  all  other  thin 
"  But  where,  good  sir,  do  ymi  (-online  your  kings?" 
"  There,"  said  his  guide,  "the  group  is  in  full  view." 
"  Indeed  !   '  replied  the  Don,  "  there  are  but  few." 
His  black  interpreter  the  charge  di.-dain'd  ; — 
"  Few,  fellow? — There  are  all  that  ever  reign'd." 

Wit,  undistingiiisliing,  is  apt  to  strike 
The  guilty  and  not  guilty,  both  alike. 
I  grant  the  sarcasm  is  too  severe, 
And  we  can  readily  refute  it  here, 
While  Alfred's  name,  the  father  of  his  age, 
And  the  Sixth  Edward's  grace  the  historic  page. 

A.  Kings  then  at  last  ha.ve  but  the  lot  of  all : 
By  their  own  conduct  they  must  stand  or  fall. 

B.  True.     While  they  live,  the  courtly  laureate  pays 
His  quit-rent  ode,  his  peppercorn  of  praise, 

And  many  a  dunce,  whose  fingers  itch  to  write, 
Adds  as  he  can  his  tributary  mite. 

*  Quevedo  de  Viliegas,  a  Spanish  writer  of  the  seventeenth  century.    He  wrote 
"  Visions  of  Hell." 


134  TABLE  TALJC. 


A  subject's  faults  a  subject  may  proclaim, 
A  monarch's  errors  are  forbidden  game  ! 
Thus,  free  from  censure,  overawed  by  fear, 
And  praised  for  virtues  that  they  scorn  to  wear, 
The  fleeting  forms  of  majesty  engage 
Respect,  while  stalking  o'er  life's  narrow  stage, 
Then  leave  their  crimes  for  history  to  scan, 
And  ask  with  busy  scorn,  Was  this  the  man  ? 

I  pity  kings  whom  worship  waits  upon 
Obsequious  from  the  cradle  to  the  throne ; 
Before  whose  infant  eyes  the  flatterer  bows, 
And  binds  a  wreath  about  their  baby  brows  ; 
Whom  education  stiffens  into  state, 
And  death  awakens  from  that  dream  too  late. 
Oh  !  if  servility  with  supple  knees, 
Whose  trade  it  is  to  smile,  to  crouch,  to  please  ; 
If  smooth  dissimulation,  skill'd  to  grace 
A  devil's  purpose  with  an  angel's  face  ; 
If  smiling  peeresses  and  simpering  peers, 
Encompassing  his  throne  a  few  short  years  ; 
If  the  gilt  carriage  and  the  pamper 'd  steed, 
That  wants  no  driving  and  disdains  the  lead ; 
If  guards  mechanically  formed  in  ranks, 
Playing  at  beat  of  drum  their  martial  pranks, 
Shouldering  arid  standing,  as  if  struck  to  stone, 
While  condescending  majesty  looks  on  ; 
If  monarchy  consist  in  such  base  things, 
Sighing,  I  say  again,  I  pity  kings  1 

To  be  suspected,  thwarted,  and  withstood, 
Even  when  he  labors  for  his  country's  good  ; 
To  see  a  band  call'd  patriot  for  no  cause, 
But  that  they  catch  at  popular  applause, 
Careless  of  all  the  anxiety  he  feels, 
Hook  disappointment  on  the  public  wheels, 
With  all  their  flippant  fluency  of  tongue, 
Most  confident,  when  palpably  most  wrong, — 
If  this  be  kingly,  then  farewell  for  me 
All  kingship,  and  may  I  be  poor  and  free  1 

To  be  the  Table  Talk  of  clubs  up  stairs, 
To  which  the  unwash'd  artificer  repairs, 
To  indulge  his  genius  after  long  fatigue, 
By  diving  into  cabinet  intrigue, 
(For  what  kings  deem  a  toil,  as  well  they  may, 
To  him  is  relaxation  and  mere  play  ;) — 
To  win  no  praise  when  well-wrought  plans  prevail, 
But  to  be  rudely  censured  when  they  fail ; 


TABLE  TALK.  135 

To  doubt  the  love  his  favorites  may  pretend 
And  in  reality  to  find  no  friend  ; 
If  he  indulge  a  cultivated  taste, 
His  galleries  with  the  works  of  art  well  graced, 
To  hear  it  call'd  extravagance  and  waste  ; 
If  these  attendants,  and  if  such  as  these, 
Must  follow  royalty,  then  welcome  ease  1 
However  humble  and  confined  the  sphere, 
Happy  the  state  that  has  not  these  to  fear  ! 

A.  Thus  men,  whose  thoughts  contemplative  have  dwelt 
On  situations  that  they  never  felt, 

Start  up  sagacious,  cover 'd  with  the  dust 

Of  dreaming  study  and  pedantic  rust, 

And  prate  and  preach  about  what  others  prove, 

As  if  the  world  and  they  were  hand  and  glove. 

Leave  kingly  backs  t<>  cope  with  kingly  cares. 

They  have  their  weight  to  carry,  subjects  theirs ; 

Poets,  of  all  men,  ever  l»-a>t  regret 

Increasing  taxes  and  the  nation's  debt. 

Could  you  contrive  the  payment,  and  rehearse 

The  mighty  plan,  oracular,  in  verse, 

No  bard,  howe'er  majestic,  old  or  new, 

Should  claim  my  fix'd  attention  more  than  you. 

B.  Not  Brindley  nor  Bridgewater  would  essay  * 
To  turn  the  course  of  Helicon  that  way  : 

Nor  would  the  Nine  consent  the  sacred  tide 
Should  purl  amidst  the  traffic  of  Cheapside, 
Or  tinkle  in  'Change  Alley,  to  amuse 
The  leathern  ears  of  stock-jobbers  and  Jews. 

A.  Vouchsafe,  at  least,  to  pitch  the  key  of  rhyme 
To  themes  more  pertinent,  if  less  sublime. 
When  ministers  and  ministerial  arts- 
Patriots,  who  love  good  places  at  their  hearts — 
When  admirals,  extolFd  for  standing  still, 
Or  doing  nothing  with  a  deal  of  skill- 
Generals,  who  will  not  conquer  when  they  may, 
Firm  friends  to  peace,  to  pleasure,  and  good  pay — 
When  Freedom,  wounded  almost  to  despair, 
Though  discontent  alone  can  find  out  where — 
When  themes  like  these  employ  the  poet's  tongue, 
I  hear — as  mute  as  if  a  syren  sung. 
Or  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  power  maintains 
A  Briton's  scorn  of  arbitrary  chains  ? 

*  James  Brindley  was  the  inventor  of  inland  navigation  by  means  of  canals,    fli* 
Duke  of  Bridgewater  was  his  patron. 


136  TABLE  TALK. 


That  were  a  theme  might  animate  the  dead, 
And  move  the  lips  of  poets  cast  in  lead. 

J5.  The  cause,  though  worth  the  search,  may  yet  elude 
Conjecture,  and  remark,  however  shrewd. 
They  take,  perhaps,  a  well-directed  aim, 
Who  seek  it  in  his  climate  and  his  frame. 
Liberal  in  all  things  else,  yet  Nature  here 
With  stern  severity,  deals  out  the  year. 
Winter  invades  the  spring,  and  often  pours 
A  chilling  flood  on  summer's  drooping  flowers  ; 
Unwelcome  vapors  quench  autumnal  beams, 
Ungenial  blasts  attending,  curl  the  streams ; 
The  peasants  urge  their  harvest,  ply  the  fork 
With  double  toil,  and  shiver  at  their  work. 
Thus  with  a  rigor,  for  his  good  design' d, 
She  rears  her  favorite  man  of  all  mankind. 
His  form  robust  and  of  elastic  tone, 
Proportion 'd  well,  half  muscle  and  half  bone, 
Supplies  with  warm  activity  and  force 
A  mind  well  lodged,  and  masculine  of  course. 
Hence  Liberty,  sweet  Liberty  inspires 
And  keeps  alive  his  fierce  but  noble  fires. 
Patient  of  constitutional  control, 
He  bears  it  with  meek  manliness  of  soul  ; 
But  if  authority  grow  wanton,  woe 
To  him  that  treads  upon  his  free-born  toe  1 
One  step  beyond  the  boundary  of  the  laws 
Fires  him  at  once  in  Freedom's  glorious  cause. 
Thus  proud  Prerogative,  not  much  revered, 
Is  seldom  felt,  though  sometimes  seen  and  heard  ; 
And  in  his  cage,  like  parrot  fine  and  gay, 
Is  kept  to  strut,  look  big,  and  talk  away. 

Born  in  a  climate  softer  far  than  ours, 
Not  form'd  like  us,  with  such  herculean  powers, 
The  Frenchman,  easy,  debonair,  and  brisk, 
Give  him  his  lass,  his  fiddle  and  his  frisk, 
Is  always  happy,  reign  whoever  may, 
And  laughs  the  sense  of  misery  far  away. 
He  drinks  his  simple  beverage  with  a  gust, 
And  feasting  on  an  onion  and  a  crust, 
We  never  feel  the  alacrity  and  joy 
With  which  he  shouts  and  carols,  Vive  le  Roi! 
Fill'd  with  as  much  true  merriment  and  glee 
As  if  he  heard  his  king  say—"  Slave,  be  free  1 ' 

Thus  happiness  depends,  as  Nature  shows, 
Less  on  exterior  things  than  most  suppose. 


TABLE  TALK. 


Vigilant  over  all  that  He  has  made, 
Kind  Providence  attends  with  gracious  aid  ; 
Bids  equity  throughout  His  works  prevail, 
And  weighs  the  nations  in  an  even  scale  ; 
He  can  encourage  slavery  to  a  smile, 
And  fill  with  discontent  a  British  isle. 

A.  Freeman  and  slave  then,  it  the  case  be  such, 
Stand  on  a  level, — and  you  prove  too  much. 
If  all  men  indiscriminately  share, 
His  fostering  power,  arid  tutelary  care, 
As  well  be  yoked  by  despotism's  hand, 
As  dwell  at  large  in  Britain's  charter'd  land. 

11.  No.     Freedom  has  a  thousand  charms  to  show, 
That  slaves,  howe'er  contented,  never  know. 
The  mind  attains  beneath  her  happy  reign 
The  growth  that  Nature  meant  she  should  attain  ; 
The  varied  field  of  science,  ever  new, 
Opening  and  wider  opening  on  her  view, 
She  ventures  on  wan  I  with  a  prosperous  force, 
While  no  base  fear  impedes  her  in  her  course. 
Religion,  richest  favor  of  the  skies, 
Stands  most  reveal'd  before  the  freeman's  eyes ; 
No  shades  of  superstition  blot  the  day, 
Liberty  chases  all  that  gloom  away. 
The  soul,  emancipated,  unoppress'd, 
Free  to  prove  all  things,  and  hold  fast  the  best, 
Learns  much,  and  to  a  thousand  listening  minds, 
Communicates  with  joy  the  good  she  finds. 
Couragt*  in  anus,  and  ever  prompt  to  show 
His  manly  forehead  to  the  fiercest  foe  ; 
Glorious  in  war,  but  for  the  sake  of  peace, 
His  spirits  rising  as  his  toils  increase, 
Guards  well  what  arts  and  industry  have  won, 
And  Freedom  claims  him  for  her  firstborn  son. 
Slaves  fight  for  what  were  better  cast  away, 
The  chain  that  binds  them,  and  a  tyrant's  sway ; 
But  they  that  fight  for  freedom,  undertake 
The  noblest  cause  mankind  can  have  at  stake, 
Religion,  virtue,  truth,  whate'er  we  call 
A  blessing,  freedom  is  the  pledge  of  all. 
O  Liberty  !  the  prisoner's  pleasing  dream, 
The  poet's  muse,  his  passion,  and  his  theme, 
Genius  is  thine,  and  thou  art  Fancy's  nurse, 
Lost  without  thee  the  ennobling  powers  of  verse ; 
Heroic  song  from  thy  free  touch  acquires 
Its  clearest  tone,  the  rapture  it  inspires. 


138  TABLE  TALK. 

Place  me  where  Winter  breathes  his  keenest  air, 

And  I  will  sing,  if  Liberty  be  there  ; 

And  I  will  sing  at  Liberty's  dear  feet, 

In  Afric's  torrid  clime,  or  India's  fiercest  heat. 

A.  Sing  where  you  please  ;  in  such  a  cause  I  grant 
An  English  poet's  privilege  to  rant. 

But  is  not  Freedom,  at  least  is  not  ours, 
Too  apt  to  play  the  wanton  with  her  powers, 
Grow  freakish,  and,  o'erleaping  every  mound, 
Spread  anarchy  and  terror  all  around  ? 

B.  Agreed.     But  would  you  sell  or  slay  your  horse 
For  bounding  and  curveting  in  his  course  ? 

Or  if,  when  ridden  with  a  careless  rein, 

He  break  away,  and  seek  the  distant  plain  ? 

No.     His  high  mettle,  under  good  control, 

Gives  him  Olympic  speed,  and  shoots  him  to  the  goal. 

Let  discipline  employ  her  wholesome  arts ; 
Let  magistrates  alert  perform  their  parts,* 
Not  skulk,  or  put  on  a  prudential  mask, 
As  if  their  duty  were  a  desperate  task  ; 
Let  active  laws  apply  the  needful  curb, 
To  guard  the  peace  that  riot  would  disturb ; 
And  Liberty,  preserved  from  wild  excess, 
Shall  raise  no  feuds  for  armies  to  suppress. 
When  Tumult  lately  burst  his  prison  door, 
And  set  plebeian  thousands  in  a  roar ; 
When  he  usurp'd  authority's  just  place, 
And  dared  to  look  his  master  in  the  face, 
When  the  rude  rabble's  watchword  was — Destroy  I 
And  blazing  London  seem'd  a  second  Troy  ; 
Liberty  blush'd,  and  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Beheld  their  progress  with  the  deepest  dread, 
Blush'd  that  effects  like  these  she  should  produce, 
Worse  than  the  deeds  of  galley-slaves  broke  loose. 
She  loses  in  such  storms  her  very  name, 
And  fierce  licentiousness  should  bear  the  blame. 

Incomparable  gem  !  thy  worth  untold  ; 
Cheap,  though  blood-bought,  and  thrown  away  when  sold; 
Majr  no  foes  ravage  thee,  and  no  false  friend 
Betray  thee,  while  professing  to  defend  ! 
Prize  it,  ye  ministers  ;  ye  monarchs,  spare  ; 
Ye  patriots,  guard  it  with  a  miser's  care ! 

A.  Patriots,  alas  1  the  few  that  have  been  found, 
Where  most  they  flourish,  upon  English  ground, 

*  Cowper  is  hinting  here  at  the  timid  and  dilatory  conduct  of  ihe  magistrates  during 
the  Lord  George  Gordon  Riots  in  1780,  to  which  the  following  passage  refers. 


TABLE  TALK.  139 


The  country's  nerd  have  scantily  supplied  ; 
And  the  last  loft  the  scene  when  Chatham  died. 

B.  Not  so — the  virtue  still  adorns  our  age, 
Though  the  chit-f  actor  died  upon  the  stage.* 
In  him,  Demosthenes  was  heard  again  ; 
Liberty  taught  him  her  Athenian  strain  ; 
She  clothed  him  with  authority  and  awe, 
Spoke  from  his  lips,  and  in  his  looks  gave  law, 
His  speech,  his  form,  his  action,  full  of  grace, 
And  all  his  country  beaming  in  his  face, 
Hi;  stood,  as  M.IMO  inimitable  hand 
Would  strive  to  make  a  Paul  or  Tully  stand. 
No  sycophant  or  i          i  hat  dared  oppose 
Her  sacred  cause,  hut  trembled  when  he  rose, 
And  every  venal  Mickler  I'-.r  tho  yoke 
Felt  himself  cruslfd  at  th«-  word  he  spoke. 

Such  men  are  raised  to  station  and  command. 
When  Providence  moans  merry  t«>  a  lai.d. 
He  speaks,  and  they  appear  ;  to  Him  they  owe 
Skill  to  direct,  and  Mren^th  to  strike  the  blow, 
To  manage  with  address,  to  seize  with  power 
The  crisis  of  a  dark  decisive  hour, 
So  Gideon  earn'd  a  victory  not  his  own, 
Subserviency  his  prai- •.  and  that  alone. 

Poor  England  !  th»>u  art  a  devoted  deer, 
Beset  with  every  ill  but  that  of  fear. 
The  nations  hunt  :  all  mark  thee  for  a  prey; 
They  swarm  around  thee,  arid  thou  stand'st  at  bay: 
Undaunted  still,  though  wearied  and  perplex'd, 
Once  Chatham  saved  thee;  but  who  saves  thee  next? 
Alas !  the  tide  of  pleasure  sweeps  along 
All  that  should  be  the  boast  of  British  song. 
'Tis  not  the  wreath  that  once  adorn'd  thy  brow, 
The  prize  of  happier  times,  will  serve  thee  now. 
Our  ancestry,  a  gallant  Christian  race, 
Patterns  of  every  virtue,  every  grace, 
Confess'd  a  God  :  they  kneel' d  before  they  fought, 
And  praised  Him  in  the  victories  he  wrought. 
Now  from  the  dust  of  ancient  days  bring  forth 
Their  sober  zeal,  integrity,  and  worth  ; 
Courage,  ungraced  by  these,  affronts  the  skies, 
Is  but  the  fire  without  the  sacrifice. 
The  stream  that  feeds  the  well-spring  of  the  heart 
Not  more  invigorates  life's  noblest  part, 

*  Lord  Clmham,  who  was  struck  down  in  a  tit  while  addressing  the  House  of  Lords, 
It  was  his  death-stroke. 


140  TABLE  TALK. 


Than  virtue  quickens  with  a  warmth  divine 
The  powers  that  sin  has  brought  to  a  decline. 

A.  The  inestimable  estimate  of  Brown* 
Rose  like  a  paper  kite,  and  charmed  the  town : 
But  measures,  plann'd  and  executed  well, 
Shifted  the  wind  that  raised  it,  and  it  fell. 
He  trod  the  very  self-same  ground  you  tread, 
And  victory  refuted  all  he  said. 

S.  And  yet  his  judgment  was  not  framed  amiss ; 
Its  error,  if  it  err'd,  was  merely  this — 
He  thought  the  dying  hour  already  come,- 
And  a  complete  recovery  f  struck  him  dumb. 

But  that  effeminacy,  folly,  lust, 
Enervate  and  enfeeble,  and  needs  must, 
And  that  a  nation  shamefully  debased 
Will  be  despised  and  trampled  on  at  last, 
Unless  sweet  penitence  her  powers  renew, 
Is  truth,  if  history  itself  be  true. 
There  is  a  time,  and  justice  marks  the  date, 
For  long-forbearing  clemency  to  wait ; 
That  hour  elapsed,  the  incurable  revolt 
Is  punish' d,  and  down  comes  the  thunderbolt. 
If  Mercy  then  put  by  the  threatening  blow, 
Must  she  perform  the  same  kind  office  now  ? 
May  she  1  and  if  offended  Heaven  be  still 
Accessible,  and  prayer  prevail,  she  will. 
'Tis  not,  however,  insolence  and  noise, 
The  tempest  of  tumultuary  joys, 
Nor  is  it  yet  despondence  and  dismay 
Will  win  her  visits,  or  engage  her  stay ; 
Prayer  only,  and  the  penitential  tear, 
Can  call  her  smiling  down,  and  fix  her  here. 

But  when  a  country  ("ne  that  I  could  name) 
In  prostitution  sinks  the  sense  of  shame  j 
When  infamous  venality,  grown  bold, 
Writes  on  his  bosom,  To  be  let  or  sold  ; 
When  perjury,  that  heaven-defying  vice, 
Sells  oaths  by  tale,  and  at  the  lowest  price, 
Stamps  God's  own  name  upon  a  lie  just  made, 
To  turn  a  penny  in  the  way  of  trade  ; 
When  avarice  starves  (and  never  hides  his  face) 
Two  or  three  millions  of  the  human  race, 

*Dr.  John  Brown  published  in  1757  his  "Estimate  of  the  Manners  and  Principles 
lit  the  Times."  It  was  a  very  popular  work  at  the  time ;  seven  editions  of  it  wer« 
published.  The  book  has  long  been  forgotten. 

t  The  revival  of  public  spirit  in  1757,  and  a  succession  of  glorious  victories. 


TABLE  TALK.  14* 


And  not  a  tongue  inquires  h'ow,  where,  or  when, 
Though  conscience  will  have  twinges  now  and  then 
When  profanation  of  the  sacred  cause 
In  all  its  parts,  times,  ministry,  and  laws, 
Bespeaks  a  land,  once  Christian,  fallen  and  lost 
In  all  that  wars  against  that  title  most ; 
What  follows  next,  let  cities  of  great  name, 
And  regions  long  since  desolate  proclaim  : 
Nineveh,  Babylon,  and  ancient  Rome, 
Speak  to  the  present  times,  and  times  to  come  ; 
They  cry  aloud  in  every  careless  ear, 
"Stop,  while  ye  may,  suspend  your  mad  career! 
Oh,  learn  from  our  example  and  our  fate- 
Learn  wisdom  and  repentance  ere  too  late  ! ' 

Not  only  vice  disposes  and  prepares 
The  mind  that  slumbers  sweetly  in  her  snares, 
To  stoop  to  tyranny's  nsnrp'd  command, 
And  bend  her  polislfd  neck  beneath  his  hand, 
(A  dire  effect,  by  one  of  Nature's  laws 
Unchangeably  connected  with  its  cause,) 
But  Providence  himself  will  intervene 
To  throw  his  dark  displeasure  o'er  the  scene. 
All  are  His  instruments  ;  each  form  of  war, 
What  burns  at  home,  or  threatens  from  afar, 
Nature  in  arms,  her  elements  at  strife, 
The  storms  that  overset  the  joys  of  life, 
Are  but  His  rods  to  scourge  a  guilty  land, 
And  waste  it  at  the  bidding  of  His  hand. 
He  gives  the  word,  and  mutiny  soon  roars 
In  all  her  gates,  and  shakes  her  distant  shores  ; 
The  standards  of  all  nations  are  unfurl'd  ; 
She  has  one  foe,  and  that  one  foe — the  world. 
And  if  lie  doom  that  people  with  a  frown, 
And  mark  them  with  a  seal  of  wrath,  press'd  down, 
Obduracy  takes  place ;  callous  and  tough, 
The  reprobated  race  grows  judgment-proof  : 
Earth  shakes  beneath  them,  and  heaven  roars  above  ; 
But  nothing  scares  them  from  the  course  they  love. 
To  the  lascivious  pipe  and  wanton  song, 
That  charm  down  fear,  they  frolic  it  along, 
With  mad  rapidity  arid  unconcern, 
Down  to  the  gulf  from  which  is  no  return. 
They  trust  in  navies,  and  their  navies  fail — 
God's  curse  can  cast  away  ten  thousand  sail  I 
They  trust  in  armies,  arid  their  courage  dies ; 
In  wisdom,  wealth,  in  fortune,  and  in  lies ; 


142  TABLE  TALK. 


But  all  they  trust  in  withers,  as  it  must, 
When  He  commands  in  whom  they  place  no  trust. 
Vengeance  at  last  pours  down  upon  their  coast, 
A  long-despised,  but  now  victorious  host ; 
Tyranny  sends  the  chain  that  must  abridge 
The  noble  sweep  of  all  their  privilege, 
Gives  liberty  the  last,  the  mortal  shock, 
Slips  the  slave's  collar  on,  arid  snaps  the  lock. 

A.  Such  lofty  strains  embellish  what  you  teach, 
Mean  you  to  prophesy,  or  but  to  preach  ? 

B.  I  know  the  mind  that  feels  indeed  the  fire 
The  muse  imparts,  and  can  command  the  lyre, 
Acts  with  a  force,  and  kindles  with  a  zeal, 
Whate'er  the  theme,  that  others  never  feel. 

If  human  woes  her  soft  attention  claim, 

A  tender  sympathy  pervades  the  frame, 

She  pours  a  sensibility  divine 

Along  the  nerve  of  every  feeling  line. 

But  if  a  deed  not  tamely  to  be  borne, 

Fire  indignation  and  a  sense  of  scorn, 

The  strings  are  swept  with  such  a  power,  so  loud, 

The  storm  of  music  shakes  th'  astonish'd  crowd. 

So,  when  remote  futurity  is  brought 

Before  the  keen  inquiry  of  her  thought, 

A  terrible  sagacity  informs 

The  poet's  heart ;  he  looks  to  distant  storms, 

He  hears  the  thunder  ere  the  tempest  lowers, 

And,  armed  with  strength  surpassing  human  powers . 

Seizes  events  as  yet  unknown  to  man, 

And  darts  his  soul  into  the  dawning  plan. 

Hence,  in  a  Roman  mouth,  the  graceful  name 

Of  prophet  and  of  poet  *  was  the  same  ; 

Hence  British  poets  too  the  priesthood  shared, 

And  every  hallow'd  Druid  was  a  bard. 

But  no  prophetic  fires  to  me  belong  ; 

I  play  with  syllables,  and  sport  in  song. 

A.  At  Westminster,  where  little  poets  strive 
To  set  a  distich  upon  six  arid  five, 
Where  Discipline  helps  opening  buds  of  sense 
And  makes  his  pupils  proud  with  silver  pence, f 
I  was  a  poet  too  ;  but  modern  taste 
Is  so  refined,  and  delicate  and  chaste, 

*  Vates. 

t  "  I  was  a  schoolboy,"  says  Cowper,  "  in  high  favor  with  the  master,  received  a 
•ilver  groat  for  my  exercise,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it  sent  from  form  to  form 
for  the  admiration  of  all  who  were  able  to  understand  it." 


TABLE  TALK.  143 


That  verse,  whatever  fire  the  fancy  warms, 
Without  a  creamy  smoothness  has  no  charms, 
Thus,  all  success  depending  on  an  ear, 
And  thinking  I  might  purchase  it  too  dear, 
If  sentiment  were  sacrificed  to  sound, 
And  truth  cut  short  to  make  a  period  round, 
I  judged  a  man  of  sense  could  scarce  do  worse 
Than  caper  in  the  morris-dance  of  verse. 

S.  Thus  reputation  is  a  spur  to  wit, 
And  some  wits  flag  through  fear  of  losing  it. 
Give  me  the  line  that  ploughs  its  stately  course, 
Like  a  proud  swan,  conquering  the  stream  by  force  j 
That  like  some  cottage  beauty,  strikes  the  heart, 
Quite  unindebted  to  the  tricks  of  art. 
When  labor  and  when  duln^ss,  club  in  hand, 
Like  the  two  figures  at  St.  Dunstan's  stand,* 
Beating  alternately,  in  measured  time, 
The  clockwork  tintinnabulum  of  rhyme, 
Exact  and  regular  the  sounds  will  be  ; 
But  such  mere  quarter-strokes  are  not  for  me. 

From  him  who  rears  a  poem  lank  and  long, 
To  him  who  strains  his  all  into  a  song, 
Perhaps  some  bonny  Caledonian  air, 
All  birks  and  braes,  though  he  was  never  there  ; 
Or,  having  whelp'd  a  prologue  with  great  pains, 
Feels  himself  spent,  and  fumbles  for  his  brains ; 
A  prologue  interdash'd  with  many  a  stroke, 
An  art  contrived  to  advertise  a  joke, 
So  that  the  jest  is  clearly  to  be  seen, 
Not  in  the  words — but  in  the  gap  between  j 
Manner  is  all  in  all,  whate'er  is  writ, 
The  substitute  for  genius,  sense,  and  wit. 

To  dally  much  with  subjects  mean  and  low, 
Proves  that  the  mind  is  weak,  or  makes  it  so. 
Neglected  talents  rust  into  decay, 
And  every  effort  ends  in  push-pin  play. 
The  man  that  means  success,  should  soar  above 
A  soldier's  feather,  or  a  lady's  glove  ; 
Else,  summoning  the  muse  to  such  a  theme, 
The  fruit  of  all  her  labor  is  whipt-cream. 
As  if  an  eagle  flew  aloft,  and  then — 
Stoop'd  from  its  highest  pitch  to  pounce  a  wren. 
As  if  the  poet,  purposing  to  wed, 

*  Two  figures  which  struck  the  quarters  on  St.  Punstan's  church  clock.    They  havt 
long  since  been  removed* 


144  TABLE  TALK. 


Should  carve  himself  a  wife  in  gingerbread. 

Ages  elapsed  ere  Homer's  lamp  appear'd, 
And  ages  ere  the  Mantuan  swan  was  heard  ; 
To  carry  nature  lengths  unknown  before, 
To  give  a  Milton  birth,  ask'd  ages  more. 
Thus  genius  rose  and  set  at  order'd  times, 
And  shot  a  day-spring  into  distant  climes, 
Ennobling  every  region  that  he  chose  ; 
He  sunk  in  Greece,  in  Italy  he  rose  ; 
And,  tedious  years  of  Gothic  darkness  past, 
Emerged  all  splendor  in  our  isle  at  last. 
Thus  lovely  halcyons  dive  into  the  main. 
Then  shew  far  off  their  shining  plumes  again. 

A.  Is  genius  only  found  in  epic  lays  ? 
Prove  this,  and  forfeit  all  pretence  to  praise. 
Make  their  heroic  powers  your  own  at  once, 
Or  candidly  confess  yourself  a  dunce. 

-B.  These  were  the  chief  ;  each  interval  of  night 
Was  graced  with  many  an  undulating  light ; 
In  less  illustrious  bards  his  beauty  shone 
A  meteor,  or  a  star  ;  in  these,  the  sun. 

The  nightingale  may  claim  the  topmost  bough 
While  the  poor  grasshopper  must  chirp  below 
Like  him  unnoticed,  I  and  such  as  I, 
Spread  little  wings,  and  rather  skip  than  fly  ; 
Perch'd  on  the  meagre  produce  of  the  land, 
An  ell  or  two  of  prospect  we  command, 
But  never  peep  beyond  the  thorny  bound, 
Or  oaken  fence,  that  hems  the  paddock  round. 

In  Eden,  ere  yet  innocence  of  heart 
Had  faded,  poetry  was  not  an  art ; 
Language,  above  all  teaching,  or  if  taught, 
Only  by  gratitude  and  glowing  thought, 
Elegant  as  simplicity,  and  warm 
As  ecstasy,  unmanacled  by  form, 
Not  prompted,  as  in  our  degenerate  days, 
By  low  ambition  and  the  thirst  of  praise, 
Was  natural  as  is  the  flowing  stream, 
And  yet  magnificent — a  God  the  theme ! 
That  theme  on  earth  exhausted,  though  above 
'Tis  found  as  everlasting  as  His  love, 
Man  lavish'd  all  his  thoughts  on  human  things, 
The  feats  of  heroes  and  the  wrath  of  kings  ; 
But  still,  while  virtue  kindled  his  delight, 
The  song  was  moral,  and  so  far  was  right. 
'Twas  thus  till  luxury  seduced  the  mind 


TABLE  TALK.  145 


To  joys  less  innocent,  as  less  refined  ; 

Then  Genius  danced  a  bacchanal ;  he  crown'd 

The  brimming  goblet,  seized  the  thyrsus,  bound 

His  brows  with  ivy,  rushed  into  the  field 

Of  wild  imagination,  and  there  reel'd, 

The  victim  of  his  own  lascivious  fires, 

And,  dizzy  with  delight,  profaned  the  sacred  wires. 

Anacreon,  Horace,  play'd  in  Greece  and  Rome 
This  bedlam  part ;  and  others  nearer  home. 
When  Cromwell  fought  for  power,  and  while  he  reigned 
The  proud  pr<>t<i< -tor  of  the  power  he  gain'd, 
Religion,  harsh,  intolerant,  austere, 
Parent  of  manners  like  herself  severe, 
Drew  a  rough  copy  of  the  Christian  face, 
Without  the  smile,  the  sweetness,  or  the  grace  ; 
The  dark  and  sullen  humor  of  the  time 
Judged  every  effort  of  the  Muse  a  crime  ; 
Verse,  in  the  finest  mould  of  fancy  cast, 
Was  lumber  in  an  age  so  void  of  taste  ; 
But  when  the  second  Charles  assumed  the  sway, 
And  arts  revived  beneatli  a  softer  day, 
Then,  like  a  bo\v  long  forced  into  a  curve, 
The  mind,  released  from  too  constrain'd  a  nerve, 
Flew  to  its  first  position  with  a  spring- 
That  made  the  vaulted  roofs  of  pleasure  ring. 
His  court,  the  dissolute  and  hateful  school 
Of  wantonness,  where  vice  was  taught  by  rule, 
Swarm'd  with  a  scribbling  herd,  as  deep  inlaid 
With  brutal  lust  as  ever  Circe  made. 
Prom  these  a  long  succession  in  the  rage 
Of  rank  obscenity  debauch'd  their  age, 
Nor  ceased  till,  ever  anxious  to  redress 
The  abuses  of  her  sacred  charge,  the  press, 
The  Muse  instructed  a  well-nurtured  train 
Of  abler  votaries  to  cleanse  the  stain, 
And  claim  the  palm  for  purity  of  song, 
That  lewtlnes>  had  usurp'd  and  worn  so  long. 
Then  decent  pleasantry  and  sterling  sense, 
That  neither  gave  nor  would  endure  offence, 
Whipp'd  out  of  sight,  with  satire  just  and  keen, 
The  puppy  pack  that  had  defiled  the  scene. 

In  front  of  these  came  Addison,     In  him 
Humor  in  holiday  and  sightly  trim, 
Sublimity  and  attic  taste  combined, 
To  polish,  furnish,  and  delight  mind. 
Then  Pope,  as  harmony  itself  exact, 


146  TABLE  TALK. 


In  verse  well  disciplined,  complete,  compact, 

Gave  virtue  and  morality  a  grace 

That,  quite  eclipsing  pleasure's  painted  face, 

Levied  a  tax  of  wonder  and  applause, 

Even  on  the  fools  that  trampled  on  their  laws. 

But  he  (his  musical  finesse  was  such, 

So  nice  his  ear,  so  delicate  his  touch) 

Made  poetry  a  mere  mechanic  art, 

And  every  warbler  had  his  tune  by  heart. 

Nature  imparting  her  satiric  gift, 

Her  serious  mirth,  to  Arbuthnot  and  Swift, 

With  droll  sobriety  they  raise  a  smile 

At  folly's  cost,  themselves  unmoved  the  while. 

That  constellation  set,  the  world  in  vain 

Must  hope  to  look  upon  their  like  again. 

A.  Are  we  then  left — B.  Not  wholly  in  the  dark  ; 
Wit  now  and  then,  struck  smartly,  shews  a  spark. 
Sufficient  to  redeem  the  modern  race 
From  total  night  and  absolute  disgrace. 
While  servile  trick  and  imitative  knack 
Confine  the  million  in  the  beaten  track, 
Perhaps  some  courser,  who  disdains  the  road, 
Snuffs  up  the  wind,  and  flings  himself  abroad. 

Contemporaries  all  surpass'd,  see  one, 
Short  his  career  indeed,  but  ably  run. 
Churchill,  himself  unconscious  of  his  powers, 
In  penury  consumed  his  idle  hours, 
And,  like  a  scatter'd  seed  at  random  sown, 
Was  left  to  spring  by  vigor  of  his  own. 
Lifted  at  length,  by  dignity  of  thought 
And  dint  of  genius,  to  an  affluent  lot, 
He  laid  his  head  in  luxury's  soft  lap, 
And  took  too  often  there  his  easy  nap. 
If  brighter  beams  than  all  he  threw  riot  forth, 
'Twas  negligence  in  him,  not  want  of  worth. 
Surly  arid  slovenly,  and  bold  arid  coarse, 
Too  proud  for  art,  and  trusting  in  mere  force, 
Spendthrift  alike  of  money  and  of  wit, 
Always  at  speed,  and  never  drawing  bit, 
He  struck  the  lyre  in  such  a  careless  mood, 
And  so  disdain'd  the  rules  he  understood, 
The  laurel  seern'd  to  wait  on  his  command, 
He  sriatch'd  it  rudely  from  the  Muse's  hand. 

Nature,  exerting  an  unwearied  power, 
Forms,  opens,  and  gives  scent  to  every  flower  ; 
Spreads  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  field,  and  leads 


TABLE  TALK.  147 


The  dancing  Naiads  through  the  dewy  meads ; 
She  fills  profuse  ten  thousand  little  throats 
With  music,  modulating  all  their  notes, 
And  charms  the  woodland  scenes  and  wilds  unknown, 
With  artless  airs  and  concerts  of  her  own : 
But  seldom  (as  if  fearful  of  expense) 
Vouchsafes  to  man  a  poet's  just  pretence- 
Fervency,  freedom,  fluency  of  thought, 
Harmony,  strength,  words  exquisitely  sought ; 
Fancy,  that  from  the  bow  that  spans  the  sky 
Brings  colors,  dipp'd  in  heaven,  that  never  die  ; 
A  soul  »'xalt«-d  above  earth  ;  a  mind 
Skill'd  in  the  characters  that  form  mankind  ; 
And.  as  the  sun.  in  rising  beauty  dress'd, 
Looks  to  the  westward  from  the  dappled  •  -a 
And  marks,  whatever  clouds  may  interpo> 
Ere  yet  his  race  begins,  its  glorious  close, 
An  eye  like  his  to  catch  the  distant  goal, 
Or,  ere  the  wheels  of  verse  begin  to  roll, 
Like  his  to  shed  illuminating  rays 
On  every  scene  and  subject  it  surveys, 
Thus  graced,  the  man  a          -  a  poet's  nam«  . 
And  the  world  cheerfully  admits  the  claim. 

Pity  Religion  has  so  seldom  found 
A  skilful  guide  into  poetic  ground  ! 

The  flowers  would  spring  where'er  she  deign'd  to  stra>. 
And  every  Muse  attend  her  in  her  way. 
Virtue  indeed  meets  many  a  rhyming  friend, 
And  many  a  compliment  politely  penn'd  ; 
But,  unattired  in  that  becoming  vest 
Religion  weaves  for  her,  and  half  undress'd, 
Stands  in  the  desert,  shivering  and  forlorn, 
A  wintry  figure,  like  a  wither'd  thorn. 
The  shelves  are  full,  all  other  themes  are  sped, 
Hackney'd  and  worn  to  the  last  flimsy  thread  : 
Satire  has  lon^  since  done  his  best,  and  curst 
And  loathsome  ribaldry  has  done  his  worst ; 
Fancy  has  sported  all  her  powers  away 
In  tales,  in  trifles,  and  in  children's  play ; 
And  'tis  the  sad  complaint,  and  almost  true, 
Whate'er  we  write,  we  bring  forth  nothing  new. 
'Twere  new  indeed,  to  see  a  bard  all  fire, 
Touch'd  with  a  coal  from  Heaven,  assume  the  lyre, 
And  tell  the  world,  still  kindling  as  he  sung, 
With  more  than  mortal  music  on  his  tongue, 


148  TABLE  TALK. 


That  He,  who  died  below,  and  reigns  above, 
Inspires  the  song,  and  that  His  name  is  Love. 

For,  after  all,  if  merely  to  beguile, 
By  flowing  numbers  and  a  flowery  style, 
The  tedium  that  the  lazy-rich  endure, 
Which  now  and  then  sweet  poetry  may  cure ; 
Or,  if  to  see  the  name  of  idol  self. 
Stamp'd  on  the  well-bound  quarto,  grace  the  shelf, 
To  float  a  bubble  on  the  breath  of  fame, 
Prompt  his  endeavor,  and  engage  his  aim, 
Debased  to  servile  purposes  of  pride, 
How  are  the  powers  of  genius  misapplied ! 
The  gift  whose  office  is  the  Giver's  praise, 
To  trace  Him  in  His  works,  His  ways, 
Then  spread  the  rich  discovery,  and  invite 
Mankind  to  share  in  the  divine  delight ; 
Distorted  from  its  use  and  just  design, 
To  make  the  pitiful  possessor  shine, 
To  purchase  at  the  fool-frequented  fair 
Of  vanity,  a  wreath  for  self  to  wear, 
Is  profanation  of  the  basest  kind — 
Proof  of  a  trifling  and  a  worthless  mind. 

A.  Hail,  Sternhold  then,  and  Hopkins,  hail !  * 

B.  Amen. 
If  flattery,  folly,  lust,  employ  the  pen ; 

If  acrimony,  slander,  and  abuse, 

Give  it  a  charge  to  blacken  and  traduce  ; 

Though  Butler's  wit,  Pope's  numbers,  Prior's  ease, 

With  all  that  fancy  can  invent  to  please, 

Adorn  the  polish'd  periods  as  they  fall, 

One  madrigal  of  theirs  is  worth  them  all. 

A.  'T would  thin  the  ranks  of  the  poetic  tribe, 
To  dash  the  pen  through  all  that  you  proscribe. 

J3.  No  matter — we  could  shift  when  they  were  not  ; 
And  should,  no  doubt,  if  they  were  all  forgot 

*  Authors  of  the  old  version  of  the  Psalms. 


EXPOS  TULA  TION.  1 49 


EXPOSTULATION. 


ARGUMENT. 

Expostulation  with  the  Muse — England's  apparently  prosperous  condition — State  ot 
Israel  when  the  prophet  wept  over  it — The  J!ab\  Ionian  captivity — When  nations 
decline,  the  evil  commences  in  tin-  Choroh— State  of  the  .Jews  in' the  time  of  our 
Saviour — Evidences  of  their  having  beni  the  most  favored  of  nations— Causes  of 
their  downfall— Lesson  taught  by  it— Warning  to  Britain— The  hand  of  Providence 
to  be  traced  in  adverse  events — England's  transgressions  — HIT  vain-glory — Her 
conduct  towards  India — Abuse  of  the  sacrament  —  Obduracy — Chaiarter  of  the 
Clergy— The  poet  adverts  to  the  state  of  the  ancient  Britons— Beneficial  influence 
of  the  Roman  power — England  under  papal  supremacy— Favon  In-stowed  on  her 
by  Providence — Reasons  For  gratitude  to  God  and  for  srrking  to  sccnr.-  His  favoi 
—With  that  she  may  defy  a  world  in  arms— The  poet  anticipates  little  effect  from 
his  warning. 

"Tantane,  tain  patiens,  nullo  eertamine  tolli 
Dona  sines  ?  "  ViitG. 

WHY  weeps  the  Muse  for  England  ?     What  appears 

In  England's  case  to  move  the  Muse  to  tears  't 

From  side  to  side  of  her  delightful  isle 

Is  she  riot  clothed  with  a  perpetual  smile? 

Can  Nature  add  a  charm,  or  Art  confer, 

A  new  found  luxury  not  seen  in  her  ? 

Where  under  Heaven  is  pleasure  more  pursued, 

Or  where  does  cold  reflection  less  intrude? 

Her  fields  a  rich  expanse  of  wavy  corn 

Pour'd  out  from  Plenty's  overilowinir  horn  \ 

Ambrosial  gardens,  in  which  art  supplies 

The  fervor  and  the  force  of  Indian  skies  ; 

Her  peaceful  shores,  where  busy  Commerce  waits 

To  pour  his  golden  tide  through  all  her  gates  ; 

Whom  fiery  suns  that  scorch  the  russet  spice 

Of  eastern  groves,  the  oceans  floor'd  with  ice, 

Forbid  in  vain  to  push  his  daring  way 

To  darker  climes,  or  climes  of  brighter  day  j 

Whom  the  winds  waft  where'er  the  billows  roll, 

From  the  world's  girdle  to  the  frozen  pole  ; 

The  chariots  bounding  in  her  wheel-worn  streets  ; 

Her  vaults  below,  where  every  vintage  meets  \ 

Her  theatres,  her  revels,  and  her  sports, 

The  scenes  to  which  not  youth  alone  resorts, 


1 50  EXPOS  TULA  TION. 


But  age,  in  spite  of  weakness  and  of  pain, 
Still  haunts  in  hope  to  dream  of  youth  again  ; 
All  speak  her  happy  : — let  the  Muse  look  round 
From  east  to  west  no  sorrow  can  be  found  ; 
Or  only  what  in  cottages  confined, 
Sighs  unregarded  to  the  passing  wind. 
Then  wherefore  weep  for  England  ?    What  appears 
In  England's  case  to  move  the  Muse  to  tears  ? 
The  prophet  wept  for  Israel,  wish'd  his  eyes 
Were  fountains  fed  with  infinite  supplies  ; 
For  Israel  dealt  in  robbery  and  wrong ; 
There  were  the  scorner's  and  the  slanderer's  tongue  , 
Oaths,  used  as  playthings  or  convenient  tools, 
As  interest  biass'd  knaves,  or  fashion  fools  j 
Adultery,  neighing  at  his  neighbor's  door ; 
Oppression,  laboring  hard  to  grind  the  poor  ; 
The  partial  balance  and  deceitful  weight ; 
The  treacherous  smile,  a  mask  for  secret  hate ; 
Hypocrisy,  formality  in  prayer, 
And  the  dull  service  of  the  lip  were  there. 
Her  women,  insolent  and  self-caress'd, 
By  Vanity's  unwearied  finger  dress'd, 
Forgot  the  blush  that  virgin  fears  impart 
To  modest  cheeks,  and  borrow'd  one  from  art ; 
Were  just  such  trifles,  without  worth  or  use, 
As  silly  pride  and  idleness  produce  ; 
Curl'd,  scented,  furbelow'd,  and  flounced  around, 
With  feet  too  delicate  to  touch  the  ground, 
They  stretch' d  the  neck,  and  roll'd  the  wanton  eye 
And  sigh'd  for  every  fool  that  flutter 'd  by. 
He  saw  his  people  slaves  to  every  lust, 
Lewd,  avaricious,  arrogant,  unjust ; 
He  heard  the  wheels  of  an  avenging  God 
Groan  heavily  along  the  distant  road  ; 
Saw  Babylon  set  wide  her  two-leaved  brass* 
To  let  the  military  deluge  pass  ; 
Jerusalem  a  prey,  her  glory  soil'd, 
Her  princes  captive,  and  her  treasure  spoil'd : 
Wept  till  all  Israel  heard  his  bitter  cry, 
Stamp 'd  with  his  foot,  and  smote  upon  his  thigh  ; 
But  wept,  and  stamp' d,  and  smote  his  thigh  in  vain 
Pleasure  is  deaf  when  told  of  future  pain, 
And  sounds  prophetic  are  too  rough  to  suit 
Ears  long  accustom'd  to  the  pleasing  lute  : 

*  Her  gates. 


EXPOS  TULA  TION.  1 5 1 


They  scorn'd  his  inspiration  and  his  theme, 
Pronounced  him  frantic,  and  his  fears  a  dream  ; 
With  self-indulgence  wing'd  the  fleeting  hours. 
Till  the  foe  found  them,  and  down  fell  the  towers. 

Long  time  Assyria  bound  them  in  her  chain, 
Till  penitence  had  purg'd  the  public  stain, 
And  Cyrus,  with  relenting  pity  moved, 
Retum'd  them  happy  to  the  land  they  loved  ; 
There,  proof  against  prosperity,  awhile 
They  stood  the  test  of  her  ensnaring  smile, 
And  had  the  grace  in  scenes  of  peace  to  show 
The  virtue  they  had  learned  in  scenes  of  woo. 
But  man  is  frail,  and  can  but  ill  sustain 
A  long  immunity  from  grief  and  pain  ; 
And,  after  all  the  joys  that  Plenty  leads, 
With  tiptoe  steps  Vice  silently  succeeds. 

When  He  that  ruled  them  with  a  shepherd's  rod, 
In  form  a  man,  in  dignity  a  God. 
Came,  not  expected  in  that  humble  ^uise, 
To  sift  and  search  them  with  unerring  eyes, 
He  found,  conceal'd  beneath  a  fair  outside, 
The  filth  of  rottenness  and  worm  of  pride, 
Their  piety  a  system  of  deceit, 
Scripture  employ'd  to  sanctify  the  cheat, 
The  Pharisee  the  dupe  of  his  own  art, 
Self-idolized,  and  yet  a  knave  at  heart. 

When  nations  are  to  perish  in  their  sins, 
'Tis  in  the  church  the  leprosy  begins  : 
The  priest,  whose  office  is  with  zeal  sincere, 
To  watch  the  fountain,  and  preserve  it  clear, 
Carelessly  nods,  and  sleeps  upon  the  brink, 
While  others  poison  what  the  flock  must  drink  j 
Or  waking  at  the  call  of  lust  alone, 
Infuses  lies  arid  errors  of  his  own : 
His  unsuspecting  sheep  believe  it  pure  j 
And  tainted  by  the  very  means  of  cure, 
Catch  from  each  other  a  contagious  spot, 
The  foul  forerunner  of  a  general  rot. 
Then  Truth  is  hush'd,  that  heresy  may  preach  ; 
And  all  is  trash  that  Reason  cannot  reach ; 
Then  God's  own  image  on  the  soul  impress'd 
Becomes  a  mockery  arid  a  standing  jest : 
And  faith,  the  root  whence  only  can  arise 
The  graces  of  a  life  that  wins  the  skies, 
Loses  at  once  all  value  and  esteem, 
Pronounced  by  graybeards  a  pernicious  dream  \ 


152  'EXPOSTULA  TION. 


Then  ceremony  leads  her  bigots  forth, 
Prepared  to  fight  for  shadows  of  no  worth, 
While  truths  on  which  eternal  things  depend 
Find  not,  or  hardly  find  a  single  friend : 
As  soldiers  watch  the  signal  of  command, 
They  learn  to  bow,  to  kneel,  to  sit,  to  stand  \ 
Happy  to  fill  religion's  vacant  place 
With  hollow  form,  and  gesture,  and  grimace. 
Such,  when  the  Teacher  of  His  Church  was 
People  and  priest,  the  sons  of  Israel  were, 
Stiff  in  the  letter,  lax  in  the  design 
A.nd  import  of  their  oracles  divine, 
Their  learning  legendary,  false,  absurd, 
And  yet  exalted  above  God's  own  Word, 
They  drew  a  curse  from  an  intended  good, 
Puff'd  up  with  gifts  they  never  understood. 
He  judged  them  with  as  terrible  a  frown, 
As  if  not  love,  but  wrath  had  brought  Him  down  : 
Yet  He  was  gentle  as  soft  summer  airs, 
Had  grace  for  others'  sins,  but  none  for  theirs  ; 
Through  all  He  spoke  a  noble  plainness  ran- 
Rhetoric  is  artifice,  the  work  of  man  ; 
The  tricks  arid  turns  that  fancy  may  devise, 
Are  far  too  mean  for  Him  that  rules  the  skies. 
The  astonish' d  vulgar  trembled  while  He  tore 
The  mask  from  faces  never  seen  before  ; 
He  stripp'd  the  impostors  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Show'd  that  they  follow'd  all  they  seem'd  to  shun 
Their  prayers  made  public,  their  excesses  kept 
As  private  as  the  chambers  where  they  slept ; 
The  temple  and  its  holy  rites  profaned 
By  mummeries  He  that  dwelt  in  it  disdain' d  ; 
Uplifted  hands,  that,  at  convenient  times, 
Could  act  extortion  and  the  worst  of  crimes, 
Wash'd  with  a  neatness  scrupulously  nice, 
Arid  free  from  every  taint  but  that  of  vice. 
Judgment,  however  tardy,  mends  her  pace 
When  obstinacy  once  has  conquer'd  grace. 
They  saw  distemper  heal'd,'  and  life  restored, 
In  answer  to  the  fiat  of  His  word, 
Confess'd  the  wonder,  and  with  daring  tongue 
Blasphemed  the  authority  from  which  it  sprung^ 
They  knew,  by  sure  prognostics  seen  on  high, 
The  future  tone  and  temper  of  the  sky  ; 
But,  grave  dissemblers,  could  not  understand 
That  sin  let  loose  speaks  punishment  at  hand. 


EXPOSTULA  TION.  1 53 


Ask  now  of  history's  authentic  page, 
And  call  up  evidence  from  every  age ; 
Display  with  busy  and  laborious  hand 
The  blessings  of  the  most  indebted  land  ; 
What  nation  will  you  find  whose  annals  prove 
So  rich  an  interest  in  Almighty  love  ? 
Where  dwell  they  now,  where  dwelt  in  ancient  day, 
A  people  planted,  water'd,  blest  as  they  ? 
Let  Egypt's  plagues  and  Canaan's  woes  proclaim 
The  favors  pour'd  upon  the  Jewish  name  ; 
Their  freedom  purchased  for  them  at  the  cost 
Of  all  their  hard  oppressors  valued  most ; 
Their  title  to  a  country  not  their  own 
Made  sure  by  prodigies  till  then  unknown  ; 
For  them  the  states  they  left  made  waste  and  void, 
For  them  the  states  to  which  they  went  destroy'd  ; 
A  cloud  to  measure  out  their  march  by  day, 
By  night  a  fire  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way, 
That  moving  signal  summoning,  when  best 
Their  host  to  move,  and  when  it  stayed,  to  rest ; 
For  them  the  rocks  dissolved  into  a  flood, 
The  dews  condensed  into  angelic  food, 
Their  very  garments  sacred,  old  yet  new, 
Arid  Time  forbid  to  touch  them  as  he  flew, 
Streams,  swell'd  above  the  bank,  enjoin'd  to  stand, 
Whilf  they  pass'd  through  to  their  appointed  land  ; 
Their  leader  ann'd  with  meekness,  zeal,  and  love, 
And  graced  with  clear  credentials  from  above  ; 
Themselves  secured  beneath  the  Almighty  wing ; 
Their  God  their  captain,*  lawgiver,  and  king  ; 
Crown'd  with  a  thousand  victories,  and  at  last 
Lords  of  the  conquer'd  soil,  there  rooted  fast, 
In  peace  possessing  what  they  won  by  war, 
Their  name  far  publish'd,  and  revered  as  far ; 
Where  will  you  find  a  race  like  theirs,  endow'd 
With  all  that  man  e'er  wished,  or  heaven  bestow'd? 

They,  and  they  only,  amongst  all  mankind, 
Received  the  transcript  of  the  Eternal  Mind, 
Were  trusted  with  His  </wn  engraven  laws, 
And  constituted  guardians  of  His  cause  ; 
Theirs  were  the  prophets,  theirs  the  priestly  call, 
And  theirs  by  birth  the  Saviour  of  us  all. 
In  vain  the  nations,  that  had  seen  them  rise 
With  fierce  and  envious,  yet  admiring  eyes, 

*  Joshua  v.  14. 


154  EXPOSTULATION. 


Had  sought  to  crush  them,  guarded  as  they  were, 

By  power  divine  and  skill  that  could  not  err. 

Had  they  maintain'd  allegiance  firm  and  sure, 

And  kept  the  faith  immaculate  and  pure, 

Then  the  proud  eagles  of  all-conquering  Rome 

Had  found  one  city  not  to  be  o'ercome, 

And  the  twelve  standards  of  the  tribes  unfurl'd 

Had  bid  defiance  to  the  warring  world. 

But  grace  abused  brings  forth  the  foulest  deeds, 

As  richest  soil  the  most  luxuriant  weeds ; 

Cured  of  the  golden  calves,  their  fathers'  sin, 

They  set  up  self,  that  idol  god  within  ; 

View'd  a  Deliverer  with  disdain  and  hate, 

Who  left  them  still  a  tributary  state ; 

Seized  fast  His  hand,  held  out  to  set  them  free 

From  a  worse  yoke,  and  nail'd  it  to  the  tree. 

There  was  the  consummation  and  the  crown, 

The  flower  of  Israel's  infamy  full  blown  ; 

Thence  date  their  sad  declension,  and  their  fall, 

Their  woes,  not  yet  repeal' d  ;  thence  date  them  all. 

Thus  fell  the  best  instructed  in  her  day, 
And  the  most  favor'd  land,  look  where  we  may. 
Philosophy  indeed  on  Grecian  eyes 
Had  pour'd  the  day,  and  cleared  the  Roman  skies  ; 
In  other  climes  perhaps  creative  art, 
With  power  surpassing  theirs,  perform'd  her  part ; 
Might  give  more  life  to  marble,  or  might  fill 
The  glowing  tablets  with  a  juster  skill  ; 
Might  shine  in  fable,  and  grace  idle  themes, 
With  all  the  embroidery  of  poetic  dreams  : 
'Twas  theirs  alone  to  dive  into  the  plan 
That  truth  and  mercy  had  reveal'd  to  man  ; 
And  while  the  world  beside,  that  plan  unknown, 
Deified  useless  wood  or  senseless  stone, 
They  breathed  in  faith  their  well-directed  prayers, 
And  the  true  God,  the  God  of  truth,  was  theirs. 

Their  glory  faded,  and  their  race  dispersed, 
The  last  of  nations  now,  though  once  the  first, 
'  They  warn  and  teach  the  proudest,  would  the\  /earn 
Keep  wisdom,  or  meet  vengeance  in  your  turn : 
If  we  escaped  not,  if  Heaven  spared  not  us, 
PeePd,  scatter'd,  and  exterminated  thus  ; 
Jf  Vice  received  her  retribution  due, 
When  we  were  vihited,  what  hope  for  you?" 
When  God  arises  with  an  awful  frown, 
To  punish  lust,  or  pluck  presumption  down  j 


EXPOS  TULA  TION.  155 


When  gifts  perverted,  or  not  duly  prized, 
Pleasure  o'ervalued,  and  His  grace  despised  ; 
Provoke  the  vengeance  of  Ills  righteous  hand 
To  pour  down  wrath  upon  a  thankless  land  ; 
He  will  be  found  impartially  severe, 
Too  just  to  wink,  or  speak  the  guilty  clear. 

O  Israel,  of  all  nations  most  undone ! 
Thy  diadem  displaced,  thy  sceptre  gone, 
Thy  temple,  once  thy  glory,  fall'n  and  razed, 
And  thou  a  worshipper  e'en  where  thou  niay'st; 
Thy  services,  once  holy  without  spot, 
Merc  shadows  now,  their  ancient  pomp  forgot; 
Thy  Levites,  once  a  consecrated  host, 
No  longer  Levites,  and  their  lineage  lost, 
And  thou  thyself  o'er  every  country  sown, 
With  none  on  earth  that  thou  canst  call  thine  own ; 
Cry  aloud,  thou  that  sittest  in  the  dust, 
Cry  to  the  proud,  the  cruel,  and  unjust, 
Knock  at  the  gates  of  nations,  rouse  their  fears, 
Say  wrath  is  coming,  and  the  storm  appears ; 
But  raise  the  shrillest  cry  in  British  ears. 

What  ails  thee,  restless  as  the  waves  that  roar, 
And  fling  their  foam  against  thy  chalky  shore  ? 
Mistress,  at  least  while  Providence  shall  please, 
And  trident-bearing  queen  of  the  wide  seas, — 
Why,  having  kept  good  faith,  and  often  shown 
Friendship  and  truth  to  others,  find'st  thou  none  ? 
Thou  that  hast  set  the  persecuted  free, 
None  interposes  now  to  succor  thee. 
Countries  indebted  to  thy  power,  that  shine 
With  light  derived  from  thee,  would  smother  thine ; 
Thy  very  children  watch  for  thy  disgrace, 
A  lawless  brood,  and  curse  thee  to  thy  face  ; 
Thy  rulers  load  thy  credit,  year  by  year, 
With  sums  Peruvian  mines  could  never  clear, 
As  if,  like  arches  built  with  skilful  hand, 
The  more  'twere  press'd  the  firmer  it  would  stand. 
The  cry  in  all  thy  ships  is  still  the  same, 
Speed  us  away  to  battle  and  to  fame  I 
Thy  mariners  explore  the  wild  expanse, 
Impatient  to  descry  the  flags  of  France  : 
But,  though  they  fight,  as  thine  have  ever  fought, 
Return  ashamed  without  the  wreaths  they  sought. 
Thy  senate  is  a  scene  of  civil  jar, 
Chaos  of  contrarieties  at  war, 
Where  sharp  and  solid,  phlegmatic  and  light, 


156  EXPOSTULATION. 


Discordant  atoms  meet,  ferment,  and  fight ; 

Where  Obstinacy  takes  his  sturdy  stand, 

To  disconcert  what  policy  has  plann'd  ; 

Where  Policy  is  busied  all  night  long 

In  setting  right  what  Faction  has  set  wrong ; 

Where  flails  of  oratory  thresh  the  floor, 

That  yields  them  chaff  and  dust,  and  nothing  more. 

Thy  rack'd  inhabitants  repine,  complain, 

Tax'd  till  the  brow  of  Labor  sweats  in  vain  ; 

War  lays  a  burden  on  the  reeling  state, 

And  peace  does  nothing  to  relieve  the  weight ; 

Successive  loads  succeeding  broils  impose, 

And  sighing  millions  prophesy  the  close. 

Is  adverse  Providence,  when  ponder'd  well, 
So  dimly  writ  or  difficult  to  spell, 
Thou  canst  not  read  with  readiness  and  ease 
Providence  adverse  in  events  like  these  ? 
Know  then,  that  heavenly  wisdom  on  this  ball 
Creates,  gives  birth  to  guides,  consummates  all ; 
That,  while  laborious  and  quick-thoughted  man 
Snuffs  up  the  praise  of  what  he  seems  to  plan, 
He  first  conceives,  then  perfects  his  design, 
As  a  mere  instrument  in  hands  divine  : 
Blind  to  the  working  of  that  secret  power 
That  balances  the  wings  of  every  hour, 
The  busy  trifler  dreams  himself  alone, 
Frames  many  a  purpose,  and  God  works  his  own. 
States  thrive  or  wither  as  moons  wax  and  wane, 
Even  as  His  will  and  His  decrees  ordain  ; 
While  honor,  virtue,  piety,  bear  sway, 
They  flourish  ;  and,  as  these  decline,  decay. 
In  just  resentment  of  His  injured  laws, 
He  pours  contempt  on  them  and  on  their  cause ; 
Strikes  the  rough  thread  of  error  right  athwart 
The  web  of  every  scheme  they  have  at  heart ; 
Bids  rottenness  invade  and  bring  to  dust 
The  pillars  of  support  in  which  they  trust, 
Arid  do  His  errand  of  disgrace  and  shame 
On  the  chief  strength  arid  glory  of  the  frame. 
None  ever  yet  impeded  what  He  wrought, 
None  bars  him  out  from  his  most  secret  thought ; 
Darkness  itself  before  His  eye  is  light, 
And  Hell's  close  mischief  naked  in  His  sight. 

Stand  now  and  judge  thyself. — Hast  thou  incurred 
His  anger  who  can  waste  thee  with  a  word, 
Who  poises  and  proportions  sea  and  land, 


EXPOS  TULA  TION.  1 5  7 


Weighing  them  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 
And  in  whose  awful  sight  all  nations  seem 
As  grasshoppers,  as  dust,  a  drop,  a  dream  ? 
Hast  thou  (a  sacrilege  His  soul  abhors) 
Claim 'd  all  the  glory  of  thy  prosperous  wars, 
Proud  of  thy  fleets  and  armies,  stolen  the  gem 
Of  His  just  praise  to  lavish  it  on  them  ? 
Hast  thou  not  learn'd,  what  thou  art  often  told, 
A  truth  still  sacred,  and  believed  of  old, 
That  no  success  attends  on  spears  and  swords 
Unbless'd,  and  that  the  battle  is  the  Lord's  ? 
That  Courage  in  his  creature  ;  and  Dismay 
The  post,  that  at  His  bidding  speeds  away, 
Ghastly  in  feature,  and  his  stammering  tongue 
With  doleful  rumor  and  sad  presage  hung, 
To  quell  the  valor  of  the  stoutest  heart, 
And  teach  the  combatants  a  woman's  part? 
That  He  bids  thousands  fly  when  none  pursue, 
Saves  as  lie  will,  by  many  or  by  few, 
Arid  claims  forever,  as  His  royal  right, 
The  event  and  sure  decision  of  the  fight? 

Hast  thou,  though  suckled  at  fair  Freedom's  breast, 
Exported  slavery  to  the  conquered  East  ? 
Pull'd  down  the  tyrants  India  served  with  dread, 
And  raised  thyself,  a  ^reat«T,  in  their  Mead? 
Gone  thither  arm'd  and  hungry,  return'd  full, 
Fed  from  the  richest  veins  of  the  Mogul, 
A  despot  big  with  power  obtain 'd  by  wealth, 
And  that  obtain'd  by  rapine  and  by  stealth  ? 
With  Asiatic  vices  stored  thy  mind, 
And  left  their  virtues  and  thine  own  behind, 
And,  having  truck'd  thy  soul,  brought  home  the  fee, 
To  tempt  the  poor  to  sell  himself  to  thee? 

Hast  thou  by  statute  shoved  from  its  design  * 
The  Saviour's  feast,  His  own  blest  bread  and  wine, 
And  made  the  symbols  of  atoning  grace 
An  office-key,  a  picklock  to  a  place, 
That  infidels  may  prove  their  title  good 
By  an  oath  dipp'd  in  sacramental  blood  ? 
A  blot  that  will  be  still  a  blot,  in  spite 
Of  all  that  grave  apologists  may  write, 
And  though  a  bishop  f  toil  to  cleanse  the  stain, 

*  The  Test  Act,  by  which  all  persons  holding  any  position  of  trust,  civil  or  military, 
were  obliged  to  receive  the  Holy  Communion  according  to  the  usage  of  the  Church  of 
England.  It  was  meant  to  exclude  the  Roman  Catholics  from  office,  and  was  repealed 
III  18*28. 

t  Warburton,  who  wrote  an  essay  called  "  The  Necessity  and  Equity  of  a  Test  Law." 


I  $3  EXPOS  TULA  TfON. 


He  wipes  and  scours  the  silver  cup  in  vain. 
And  hast  thou  sworn  on  every  slight  pretence, 
Till  perjuries  are  common  as  bad  pence, 
While  thousands,  careless  of  the  damning  sin, 
Kiss  the  book's  outside,  who  ne'er  look  within  ? 

Hast  thou,  when  Heaven  has  clothed  thee  with  disgrao* 
And,  long  provoked,  repaid  thee  to  thy  face, 
(For  thou  hast  known  eclipses,  and  endured 
Dimness  and  anguish,  all  thy  beams  obscured, 
When  sin  has  shed  dishonor  on  thy  brow ; 
And  never  of  a  sabler  hue  than  now  j) 
Hast  thou  with  heart  perverse  and  conscience  sear'd, 
Despising  all  rebuke,  still  persevered  ; 
And  having  chosen  evil,  scorn'd  the  voice 
That  cried  Repent !  and  gloried  in  thy  choice  ? 
Thy  fastings,  when  calamity  at  last 
Suggests  the  expedient  of  a  yearly  fast, 
What  mean  they  ?     Canst  thou  dream  there  is  a  power 
In  lighter  diet  at  a  later  hour, 
To  charm  to  sleep  the  threatening  of  the  skies, 
And  hide  past  folly  from  all-seeing  eyes  ? 
The  fast  that  wins  deliverance,  and  suspends 
The  stroke  that  a  vindictive  God  intends, 
Is  to  renounce  hypocrisy  ;  to  draw 
Thy  life  upon  the  pattern  of  the  law ; 
To  war  with  pleasure,  idolized  before  ; 
To  vanquish  lust,  and  wear  its  yoke  no  more. 
All  fasting  else,  whate'er  be  the  pretence, 
Is  wooing  mercy  by  renew' d  offence. 

Hast  thou  within  thee  sin,  that  in  old  time 
Brought  fire  from  heaven,  the  sex-abusing  crime, 
Whose  horrid  perpetration  stamps  disgrace 
Baboons  are  free  from,  upon  human  race  ? 
Think  on  the  fruitful  and  well-water'd  spot 
That  fed  the  flocks  and  herds  of  wealthy  Lot, 
Where  Paradise  seem'd  still  vouchsafed  on  earth, 
Burning  and  scorch'd  into  perpetual  dearth  ; 
Or,  in  his  words  who  damn'd  the  base  desire, 
Suffering  the  vengeance  of  eternal  fire  : 
Then  Nature  injured,  scandalized,  defiled, 
Unveil'd  her  blushing  cheek,  look'd  on  and  smiled  ; 
Beheld  with  joy  the  lovely  scene  defaced, 
And  praised  the  wrath  that  laid  her  beauties  waste. 

Far  be  the  thought  from  any  verse  of  mine, 
And  farther  still  the  form'd  and  fix'd  design, 
To  thrust  the  charge  of  deeds  that  I  detest 


EXPOS  TULA  TIOM  159 


Against  an  innocent  unconscious  breast ; 

The  man  that  dares  traduce,  because  he  can 

With  safety  to  himself,  is  not  a  man. 

An  individual  is  a  sacred  mark, 

Not  to  be  pierced  in  play,  or  in  the  dark  ; 

But  public  censure  speaks  a  public  foe, 

Unless  a  zeal  for  virtue  guide  the  blow. 

The  priestly  brotherhood,  devout,  sincere, 
From  mean  self-interest  and  ambition  clear, 
Their  hope  in  Heaven,  servility  their  scorn, 
Prompt  to  persuade,  expostulate,  and  warn, 
Their  wisdom  pure,  and  given  them  from  above, 
Their  usefulness  ensured  by  zeal  and  love, 
As  meek  as  the  man  Moses,  and  withal 
As  bold  as,  in  Agrippa's  presence,  Paul, 
Should  fly  the  world's  contaminating  touch, 
Holy  arid  unpolluted  : — Are  thine  such  ? 
Except  a  few  with  Eli's  spirit  blest, 
Hophni  and  Phinehas  may  describe  the  rest. 

Where  shall  a  teacher  look,  in  days  like  these 
For  ears  and  hearts  that  he  can  hope  to  please  1 
Look  to  the  poor — the  simple  and  the  plain 
Will  hear  perhaps  thy  salutary  strain  : 
Humility  is  gentle,  apt  to  learn, 
Speak  but  the  word,  will  listen  arid  return, 
Alas,  not  so  1  the  poorest  of  the  flock 
Are  proud,  and  set  their  faces  as  a  rock  : 
Denied  that  earthly  opulence  they  choose, 
God's  better  gift  they  scoff  at  and  refuse. 
The  rich,  the  produce  of  a  nobler  stern, 
Are  more  intelligent  at  least, — try  them. 
Oh  vain  inquiry  !  they  without  remorse 
Are  altogether  gone  a  devious  course, 
Where  beckoning  Pleasure  leads  them,  wildly  stray  ; 
Have  burst  the  bands,  and  cast  the  yoke  away. 

Now,  borne  upon  the  wings  of  truth  sublime, 
Review  thy  dim  original  and  prime. 
This  island  spot  of  unreclaim'd  rude  earth, 
The  cradle  that  received  thee  at  thy  birth, 
Was  rock'd  by  many  a  rough  Norwegian  blast, 
And  Danish  howlings  scared  thee  as  they  pass'd ; 
For  thou  wast  born  amid  the  din  of  arms, 
And  suck'd  a  breast  that  panted  with  alarms. 
While  yet  thou  wast  a  grovelling,  puling  chit, 
Thy  bones  not  fashion'd,  and  thy  joints  not  knit, 
The  Roman  taught  thy  stubborn  knee  to  bow. 


1 60  EXPOS  TULA  TION. 


Though  twice  a  Caesar  could  not  bend  thee  now  ; 

His  victory  was  that  of  orient  light, 

When  the  sun's  shafts  disperse  the  gloom  of  night. 

Thy  language  at  this  distant  moment  shows 

How  much  the  country  to  the  conqueror  owes  ; 

Expressive,  energetic,  and  refined, 

It  sparkles  with  the  gems  he  left  behind. 

He  brought  thy  land  a  blessing  when  he  came, 

He  found  thee  savage,  and  he  left  thee  tame  ; 

Taught  thee  to  clothe  thy  pink'd  and  painted  hide, 

And  graced  thy  figure  with  a  soldier's  pride  ; 

He  sow'd  the  seeds  of  order  where  he  went, 

Improved  thee  far  beyond  his  own  intent, 

And  while  he  ruled  thee  by  the  sword  alone, 

Made  thee  at  a  last  warrior  like  his  own. 

Religion,  if  in  heavenly  truths  attired, 

Needs  onlv  to  be  seen  to  be  admired  ; 

V  J 

But  thine,  as  dark  as  witcheries  of  the  night, 
Was  form'd  to  harden  hearts  and  shock  the  sight  ; 
Thy  Druids  struck  the  well-strung  harps  they  bore 
With  fingers  deeply  dyed  in  human  gore  ; 
And  while  tbe  victim  slowly  bled  to  death 
Upon  the  tolling  chords  rung  out  his  dying  breath. 

Who  brought  the  lamp  that  with  awakening  beam? 
Dispell'd  thy  gloom,  and  broke  away  thy  dreams, 
Tradition,  now  decrepit,  and  worn  out, 
Babbler  of  ancient  fables,  leaves  a  doubt ; 
But  still  light  reach'd  thee  ;  and  those  gods  of  thine 
Woden  and  Thor,  each  tottering  in  his  shrine, 
Fell,  broken  and  defaced,  at  his  own  door, 
As  Dagon  in  Philistia  long  before. 
But  Rome  with  sorceries  and  magic  wand 
Soon  raised  a  cloud  that  darken'd  every  land ; 
And  thine  was  smothered  in  the  stench  and  fog 
Of  Tiber's  marshes  and  the  Papal  bog. 
Then  priests  with  bulls  and  briefs,  and  shaven  crowns 
And  griping  fists  and  unrelenting  frowns, 
Legates  arid  delegates  with  powers  from  hell, 
Though  heavenly  in  pretension,  fleeced  thee  well ; 
And  to  this  hour,  to  keep  it  fresh  in  mind. 
Some  twigs  of  that  old  scourge  are  left  behind.* 
Thy  soldiery,  the  Pope's  well  managed  pack, 
Were  train' d  beneath  his  lash,  and  knew  the  smack, 
And  when  he  laid  them  on  the  scent  of  blood, 
Would  hunt  a  Saracen  through  fire  and  flood. 

*  Which  may  be  found  at  Doctors'  Commons.— C. 


EXPOS  TULA  TION.  1 6 1 


Lavish  of  life,  to  win  an  empty  tomb, 

That  proved  a  mint  of  wealth,  a  mine  to  Rome, 

They  left  their  bones  beneath  unfriendly  skies, 

His  worthless  absolution  all  the  prize. 

Thou  wast  the  veriest  slave  in  days  of  yore. 

That  ever  dragg'd  a  chain  or  tugg'd  an  oar  ; 

Thy  monarchs  arbitrary,  fierce,  unjust, 

Themselves  the  slaves  of  bigotry  or  lust, 

Disdain'd  thy  counsels,  only  in  distress 

Found  thee  a  goodly  sponge  for  Power  to  press. 

Thy  chiefs,  the  lords  of  many  a  petty  fee, 

Provoked  and  harassed,  in  return  plagued  thee  ; 

Call'd  thee  away  from  peaceable  employ, 

Domestic  happiness  and  rural  joy, 

To  waste  thy  life  in  arms,  or  lay  it  down 

In  causeless  feuds  and  bickerings  of  their  own. 

Thy  Parliaments  adored  on  bended  knees 

The  sovereignty  they  were  comvened  to  please ; 

Whate'er  was  ask'd,  too  timid  to  resist, 

Complied  with,  and  were  graciously  dismissed; 

And  if  some  Spartan  soul  a  doubt  express'd, 

And  blushing  at  the  tameness  of  the  rest, 

Dared  to  suppose  the  subject  had  a  choice, 

He  was  a  traitor  by  the  general  voice. 

Oh  slave  !  with  powers  thou  didst  not  dare  exert. 

Verse  cannot  stoop  so  low  as  thy  desert  1 

It  shakes  the  sides  of  splenetic  Disdain, 

Thou  self-entitled  ruler  of  the  main, 

To  trace  thee  to  the  date  when  yon  fair  sea, 

That  clips  thy  shores,  had  no  such  charms  for  thee  5 

"When  other  nations  flew  from  coast  to  coast . 

And  thou  had'st  neither  fleet  nor  flag  to  boast. 

Kneel  now,  and  lay  thy  forehead  in  the  dust  I   . 
Blush  if  thou  canst ;  not  petrified  thou  must ; 
Act  but  an  honest  and  a  faithful  part ; 
Compare  what  then  thou  wast  with  what  thou  art  \ 
And  God's  disposing  providence  confess'd, 
Obduracy  itself  must  yield  the  rest, 
Then  art  thou  bound  to  serve  Him,  and  to  prove, 
Hour  after  hour,  thy  gratitude  and  love. 

Has  He  not  hid  thee  and  thy  favor'd  land. 
For  ages,  safe  beneath  His  sheltering  hand, 
Given  thee  His  blessing  on  the  clearest  proof, 
Bid  nations  leagued  against  thee  stand  aloof. 
And  charged  Hostility  and  Hate  to  roar 
Where  else  they  would,  but  not  upon  thy  shore  ? 


162  EXPOSTULATION. 


His  power  secured  thee,  when  presumptuous  Spain 

Baptized  her  fleet  Invincible  in  vain  ; 

Her  gloomy  monarch,  doubtful  and  resign'd 

To  every  pang  that  racks  an  anxious  mind, 

Ask'd  of  the  waves  that  broke  upon  his  coast. 

What  tidings  ?  and  the  surge  replied — all  lost  1 

And  when  the  Stuart,*  leaning  on  the  Scot, 

Then  too  much  fear'd,  and  now  too  much  forgot, 

Pierced  to  the  very  centre  of  the  realm, f 

And  hoped  to  seize  his  abdicated  helm, 

'Twas  but  to  prove  how  quickly,  with  a  frown, 

He  that  had  raised  thee  could  have  pluck'd  thee 

Peculiar  is  the  grace  by  thee  possess'd, 

Thy  foes  implacable,  thy  land  at  rest ; 

Thy  thunders  travel  over  earth  and  seas, 

And  all  at  home  is  pleasure,  wealth,  and  ease. 

'Tis  thus,  extending  His  tempestuous  arm, 

Thy  Maker  fills  the  nations  with  alarm, 

While  His  own  heaven  surveys  the  troubled  tecene, 

And  feels  no  change,  unshaken  and  serene. 

Freedom,  in  other  lands  scarce  known  to  shine, 

Pours  out  a  flood  of  splendor  upon  thine  ; 

Thou  hast  as  bright  an  interest  in  her  rays 

As  ever  Roman  had  in  Rome's  best  days.  -, 

True  freedom  is  where  no  restraint  is  known 

That  Scripture,  justice,  and  good  sense  disown, 

Where  only  vice  and  injury  are  tied, 

And  all  from  shore  to  shore  is  free  beside. 

Such  freedom  is, — and  Windsor's  hoary  towers 

Stood  trembling  at  the  boldness  of  thy  powers, 

That  won  a  nymph  on  that  immortal  plain, \ 

Like  her  the  fabled  Phoebus  woo'd  in  vain  : 

He  found  the  laurel  only  ; — happier  you, 

The  unfading  laurel  and  the  virgin  too  ! 

Now  think,  if  Pleasure  have  a  thought  to  spare, 
If  God  himself  be  not  beneath  her  care ; 
If  business,  constant  as  the  wheels  of  time, 
Can  pause  one  hour  to  read  a  serious  rhyme  , 
If  the  new  mail  thy  merchants  now  receive, 
Or  expectation  of  the  next  give  leave  ; 
Oh  think,  if  chargeable  with  deep  arrears 
For  such  indulgence  gilding  all  thy  years, 
How  much,  though  long  neglected,  shining  yet, 

*  Prince  Charles  Edward.  1  Derby, 

t  Alluding  to  the  grant  of  Magna  Charta,  which  was  extorted  from  King  John  by 
the  barons  at  Runny mede,  near  Windsor. 


EXPOSTULA  TION.  1 63 


The  beams  of  heavenly  truth  have  s-vrell'd  the  debt. 

When  persecuting  zeal  made  royal  sport 

With  tortured  innocence  in  Mary's  court. 

And  Bonner,  blithe  as  shepherd  at  a  wake, 

Enjoy'd  the  show,  and  danced  about  the  stake  ; 

The  sacred  Book,  its  value  understood, 

Received  the  seal  of  martyrdom  in  blood. 

Those  h:>ly  men,  so  full  of  truth  and  grace, 

Seem  to  reflection  of  a  different  race, 

Meek,  modest,  venerable,  wise,  sincere, 

In  such  a  cause  they  could  not  dare  to  fear  ; 

They  could  not  purchase  earth  with  such  a  prize. 

Or  spare  a  life  too  short  to  reach  the  skies. 

From  them  to  thee,  convey'd  along  the  tide, 

Their  streaming  hearts  pour'd  freely  when  they  died. 

Those  truths,  which  neither  use  nor  years  impair, 

Invite  thee,  woo  thee,  to  the  bliss  they  share. 

What  dotage  will  not  Vanity  maintain  V 

What  web  too  weak  to  catch  a  modern  brain  ? 

The  moles  and  bat>  in  full  ;i— "iiibly  find, 

On  special  search,  the  keen-eyed  eagle  blind. 

And  did  they  dream,  and  art  thou  wiser  now  ? 

Prove  it : — if  better,  I  submit  and  bow. 

Wisdom  and  Goodness  are  twinborn,  one  heart 

Must  hold  both  sisters,  never  seen  apart. 

So  then — as  darkness  overspread  the  deep, 
Ere  Nature  rose  from  her  eternal  sleep, 
And  this  delightful  earth,  and  that  fair  sky, 
Leap'd  out  of  nothing,  call'd  by  the  Most  High  ; 
By  such  a  change  thy  darkness  is  made  light, 
Thy  chaos  order,  and  thy  weakness  might ; 
And  He,  whose  power  mere  nullity  obeys, 
Who  found  thee  nothing,  formed  thee  for  His  praise 
To  praise  Him  is  to  serve  Him,  and  fulfil, 
Doing  and  suffering.  His  unquestion'd  will ; 
'Tis  to  believe  what  men  inspired  of  old, 
Faithful,  and  faithfully  inforni'd,  unfold  ; 
Candid  and  just,  with  no  false  aim  in  view, 
To  take  for  truth  what  cannot  but  be  true, 
To  learn  in  God's  own  school  the  Christian  part, 
And  bind  the  task  assigii'd  thee  to  thine  heart. 
Happy  the  man  there  seeking  and  there  found, 
Happy  the  nation  where  such  men  abound  ! 

How  shall  a  verse  impress  thee  ?  by  what  name 
Shall  I  adjure  thee  not  to  court  thy  shame  ? 
By  theirs  whose  bright  example  unimpeach'd 


164  EXPOSTULATION. 


Directs  thee  to  that  eminence  they  reach' d, 

Heroes  and  worthies  of  days  past,  thy  sires  ? 

Or  His,  who  touch' d  their  hearts  with  hallo w'd  fires 

Their  names,  alas  !  in  vain  reproach  an  age, 

Whom  all  the  vanities  they  scorn 'd  engage ; 

And  His,  that  seraphs  tremble  at,  is  hung 

Disgracefully  on  every  trifler's  tongue, 

Or  serves  the  champion  in  forensic  war 

To  flourish  and  parade  with  at  the  bar. 

Pleasure  herself  perhaps  suggests  a  plea, 

If  interest  move  thee,  to  persuade  e'en  thee  ; 

By  every  charm  that  smiles  upon  her  face, 

By  joys  possess'd,  and  jcfys  still  held  in  chase, 

If  dear  society  be  worth  a  thought, 

And  if  the  feast  of  freedom  cloy  thee  not, 

Reflect  that  these  and  all  that  seems  thine  own, 

Held  by  the  tenure  of  His  will  alone, 

Like  angels  in  the  service  of  their  Lord, 

Remain  with  thee,  or  leave  thee  at  His  word  ; 

That  gratitude  and  temperance  in  our  use 

Of  what  He  gives  unsparing  and  profuse, 

Secure  the  favor  and  enhance  the  joy, 

That  thankless  waste  and  wild  abuse  destroy. 

But  above  all  reflect,  how  cheap  soe'er 
Those  rights  that  millions  envy  thee  appear, 
And  though  resolved  to  risk  them,  and  swim  down 
The  tide  of  pleasure,  heedless  of  his  frown, 
That  blessings  truly  sacred,  and  when  given, 
Mark'd  with  the  signature  and  stamp  of  Heaven, 
The  word  of  prophecy,  those  truths  divine 
Which  make  that  Heaven,  if  thou  desire  it,  thine, 
(Awful  alternative  !  believed,  beloved, 
Thy  glory — and  thy  shame  if  unapproved,) 
Are  never  long  vouchsafed,  if  push'd  aside 
With  cold  disgust  or  philosophic  pride  ; 
And  that  judicially  withdrawn,  disgrace, 
Error,  and  darkness  occupy  their  place. 

A  world  is  up  in  arms,  and  thou,  a  spot 
Not  quickly  found  if  negligently  sought, 
Thy  soul  as  ample  as  thy  bounds  are  small, 
Endurest  the  brunt,  arid  darest  defy  them  all ; 
And  wilt  thou  join  to  this  bold  enterprise 
A  bolder  stiii,  a  contest  with  the  skies? 
Remember,  if  He  guard  thee,  and  secure, 
Whoe'er  assails  thee,  thy  success  is  sure  ; 
But  if  He  leave  thee,  though  the  skill  and  power 


EXPOS  TULA  TION.  J  65 


Of  nations  sworn  to  spoil  thee  and  devour, 

Were  all  collected  in  thy  single  arm, 

And  thou  could'st  laugh  away  the  fear  of  harm, 

That  strength  would  fail,  opposed  against  the  push 

And  feeble  onset  of  a  pigmy  rush. 

Say  not  (and  if  the  thought  of  such  defence 

Should  spring  within  thy  bosom,  drive  it  thence) 

What  nation  amongst  all  my  foes,  is  free 

From  crimes  as  base  as  any  charg'd  on  me  ? 

Their  measure  fill'd,  they  too  shall  pay  the  debt, 

Which  God.  though  long  forborne,  will  not  forget. 

Hut  know  that  wrath  divine,  when  most  severe, 

Makes  justice  still  the  guide  of  his  career, 

And  will  not  punish  in  one  mingled  crowd, 

Them  without  light,  and  thee  without  a  cloud. 

Muse,  hang  this  harp  upon  yon  aged  beech. 
Still  murmuring  with  the  solemn  truths  I  teach  ; 
And  while  at  intervals  a  cold  blast  sings 
Through  the  dry  leaves,  and  pants  upon  the  strings* 
My  soul  shall  sigh  in  secret,  and  lament 
A  nation  scourg'd,  yet  tardy  to  repent. 
I  know  the  warning  song  is  sung  in  vain, 
That  few  will  hear,  and  fewer  heed  tin1  strain : 
But  if  a  sweeter  voice,  and  one  d<»sign'd 
A  blessing  to  my  country  and  mankind. 
Reclaim  the  wandering  thousands,  and  bring  home 
A  flock  so  scatter 'd  and  so  wont  to  roam, 
Then  place  it  once  again  between  my  knees  ; 
The  sound  of  truth  will  then  be  sure  to  please  ; 
Arid  truth  alone,  where'er  my  life  be  cast, 
In  scenes  of  plenty,  or  the  pining  waste, 
Shall  be  my  ehosen  theme,  my  glory  to  the  last 


166  HOPE. 


HOPE. 


ARGUMENT. 

Human  life— The  charms  of  Nature  remain  the  same  though  they  appear  different  in 
youth  and  age— Frivolity  of  fashionable  life— Value  of  life — The  works  of  the 
Creator  evidences  of  His  attributes — Nature  the  handmaid  of  grace— Character 
of  Hope — Man  naturally  stubborn  and  intractable — His  conduct  in  different 
stations— Death's  honors— Each  man's  belief  right  in  his  own  eyes— Simile  of 
Ethelred's  hospitality — Mankind  quarrel  with  the  Giver  of  eternal  life,  011 
account  of  the  terms  on  which  it  is  offered — Opinions  on  this  subject — Spread  of 
the  Gospel — The  Greenland  Missions — Contrast  of  the  unconverted  and  converted 
heathen — Character  of  Leuconomus — The  man  of  pleasure  the  blindest  of  bigots — 
Any  hope  preferred  to  that  required  by  the  Scripture— Human  nature  opposed  to 
Truth — Apostrophe  to  Truth — Picture  of  one  conscience-smitten — The  pardoned 
sinner — Conclusion. 

"  Doceas  iter,  et  sacra  ostia  pandas." 

VIRG.,  JEn.  6 

ASK  what  is  human  life — the  sage  replies, 

With  disappointment  lowering  in  his  eyes, 

"  A  painful  passage  o'er  a  restless  flood, 

A  vain  pursuit  of  fugitive  false  good, 

A  scene  of  fancied  bliss  and  heartfelt  care, 

Closing  at  last  in  darkness  and  despair. 

The  poor,  inured  to  drudgery  and  distress, 

Act  without  aim,  think  little,  and  feel  less, 

And  nowhere,  but  in  feign'd  Arcadian  scenes, 

Taste  happiness,  or  know  what  pleasure  means. 

Riches  are  pass'd  away  from  hand  to  hand, 

As  fortune,  vice,  or  folly  may  command  ; 

As  in  a  dance  the  pair  that  take  the  lead 

Turn  downward,  and  the  lowest  pair  succeed, 

So  shifting  and  so  various  is  the  plan 

By  which  Heaven  rules  the  mix'd  affairs  of  man  ; 

Vicissitude  wheels  round  the  motley  crowd, 

The  rich  grow  poor,  the  poor  become  purse-proud ; 

Business  is  labor,  and  man's  weakness  such, 

Pleasure  is  labor  too,  and  tires  as  much; 

The  very  sense  of  it  foregoes  its  use, 

By  repetition  pall'd,  by  age  obtuse. 

Youth  lost  in  dissipation,  we  deplore, 

Through  life's  sad  remnant,  what  no  sighs  restore ; 


HOPE.  167 


Our  years,  a  fruitless  race  without  a  prize, 
Too  many  yet  too  few  to  make  us  wise." 

Dangling  his  cane  about,  and  taking  snuff, 
Lothario  cries,  "  What  philosophic  stuff!  " — 
Oh,  querulous  and  weak ! — whose  useless  brain 
Once  thought  of  nothing,  and  now  thinks  in  vain, 
Whose  eye  reverted  weeps  o'er  all  the  past, 
Whose  prospect  shews  thee  a  disheartening  waste ; 
Would  age  in  thee  resign  his  wintry  reign, 
And  youth  invigorate  that  frame  again, 
Renew'd  desire  would  grace  with  other  speech 
Joys  always  prized,  when  placed  within  our  reach. 

For  lift  thy  palsied  head,  shake  off  the  gloom 
That  overhangs  the  borders  of  thy  tomb, 
See  Nature  gay  as  when  she  first  began, 
With  smiles  alluring  her  admirer  man  ; 
She  spreads  the  morning  over  eastern  hills, 
Earth  glitters  with  the  drops  the  night  distils, 
The  sun  obedient  at  her  call  appears, 
To  fling  his  glories  o'er  the  robe  she  wears ; 
Banks  clothed  with  flowers,  groves  filFd  with  sprightly  sounds, 
The  yellow  tilth,  green  meads,  rocks,  rising  grounds, 
Streams  edged  with  osiers,  fattening  every  fiVld, 
Where'er  they  flow,  now  seen  and  now  conceal'd  ; 
From  the  blue  rim,  where  skies  and  mountains  meet 
Down  to  the  very  turf  beneath  thy  feet, 
Ten  thousand  charms,  that  only  fools  despise, 
Or  pride  can  look  at  with  indifferent  eyes, 
All  speak  one  language,  all  with  one  sweet  voice 
Cry  to  her  universal  realm,  Rejoice  ! 
Man  feels  the  spur  of  passions  and  desires, 
And  she  gives  largely  more  than  he  requires ; 
Not  that  his  hours  devoted  all  to  care, 
Hollow-eyed  abstinence,  and  lean  despair, 
The  wretch  may  pine,  while  to  his  smell,  taste,  sight, 
She  holds  a  Paradise -of  rich  delight ; 
But  gently  to  rebuke  his  awkward  fear, 
To  prove  that  what  she  gives,  she  gives  sincere, 
To  banish  hesitation,  and  proclaim 
His  happiness  her  dear,  her  only  aim. 
'Tis  grave  Philosophy's  absurdest  dream, 
That  Heaven's  intentions  are  not  what  they  seeaa. 
That  only  shadows  are  dispensed  below, 
And  earth  has  no  reality  but  woe. 

Thus  things  terrestrial  wear  a  different  hue, 
As  youth  or  age  persuades  ;  and  neither  true : 


168  x    HOPE. 

So,  Flora's  wreath  through  color'd  crystal  seen, 
The  rose  or  lily  appears  blue  or  green, 
But  still  the  imputed  tints  are  those  alont 
The  medium  represents,  and  not  their  own. 

To  rise  at  noon,  sit  slipshod  and  undress'd, 
To  read  the  news,  or  fiddle,  as  seems  best, 
Till  half  the  world  comes  rattlkig  at  his  door, 
To  fill  the  dull  vacuity  till  four  ; 
And  just  when  evening  turns  the  blue  vault  gray, 
To  spend  two  hours  in  dressing  for  the  day  ; 
To  make  the  Sun  a  bauble  without  use, 
Save  for  the  fruits  his  heavenly  beams  produce ; 
Quite  to  forget,  or  deem  it  worth  no  thought, 
Who  bids  him  shine,  or  if  he  shine  or  not ; 
Through  mere  necessity  to  close  his  eyes 
Just  when  the  larks  and  when  the  shepherds  rise; 
Is  such  a  life,  so  tediously  the  same, 
So  void  of  all  utility  or  aim, 
That  poor  Jonquil,  with  almost  every  breach, 
Sighs  for  his  exit,  vulgarly  call'd  death : 
For  he,  with  all  his  follies,  has  a  mind 
Not  yet  so  blank,  or  fashionably  blind, 
But  now  and  then  perhaps  a  feeble  ray 
Of  distant  wisdom  shoots  across  his  way, 
By  which  he  reads,  that  life  without  a  plan 
As  useless  as  the  moment  it  began, 
Serves  merely  as  a  soil  for  discontent 
To  thrive  in  ;  an  incumbrance  ere  half  spent. 
Oh !  weariness  beyond  what  asses  feel, 
That  tread  the  circuit  of  the  cistern  wheel  j 
A  dull  rotation,  never  at  a  stay, 
Yesterday's  face  twin  image  of  to-day, 
While  conversation,  an  exhausted  stock, 
Grows  drowsy  as  the  clicking  of  a  clock. 
No  need,  he  cries,  of  gravity  stuff'd  out 
With  academic  dignity  devout, 
To  read  wise  lectures,  vanity  the  text ; 
Proclaim  the  remedy,  ye  learned,  next ; 
For  truth  self-evident,  with  pomp  impress'd, 
Is  vanity  surpassing  all  the  rest. 

That  remedy,  not  hid  in  deeps  profound, 
Yet  seldom  sought  where  only  to  be  found, 
While  passion  turns  aside  from  its  due  scope 
The  inquirer's  aim,  that  remedy  is  Hope. 
Life  is  His  gift,  from  whom  whate'er  life  needs 
With  every  good  and  perfect  gift,  proceeds  ; 


HOPE.  169 

Bestow'd  on  man,  like  all  that  we  partake, 
Royally,  freely,  for  His  bounty's  sake  ; 
Trp.risient,  indeed,  as  is  the  fleeting  hour, 
And  yet  the  seed  of  an  immortal  flower, 
Design'd  in  honor  of  His  endless  love, 
To  fill  with  fragrance  His  abode  above ; 
No  trifle,  howsoever  short  it  seem, 
And,  howsoever  shadowy,  no  dream  ; 
Its  value,  what  no  thought  can  ascertain, 
Nor  all  an  angel's  eloquence  explain. 

Men  deal  with  life  as  children  with  their  play, 
Who  first  misuse,  then  cast  their  toys  away ; 
Live  to  no  sober  purpose,  and  contend 
That  their  Creator  had  no  serious  end. 
When  God  and  man  stand  opposite  in  view, 
Man's  disappointment  must,  of  course,  ensue. 
The  just  Creator  condescends  to  write, 
In  beams  of  inextinguishable  light, 
His  names  of  wisdom,  goodness,  power,  and  love, 
On  all  that  blooms  below,  or  shines  above, 
To  catch  the  wandering  notice  of  mankind, 
And  teach  the  wo*ld,  if  not  perversely  blind, 
His  gracious  attributes,  and  prove  the  share 
His  offspring  hold  in  His  paternal  care. 
If,  led  from  earthly  things  to  things  divine, 
His  creature  thwart  not  His  august  design, 
Then  praise  is  heard  instead  of  reasoning  pride, 
And  captious  cavil  and  complaint  subside. 
Nature,  employ'd  in  her  allotted  place, 
Is  handmaid  to  the  purposes  of  Grace ; 
By  good  vouchsafed  makes  known  superior  good. 
And  bliss  not  seen  by  blessings  understood  : 
That  bliss,  reveal'd  in  Scripture,  with  a  glow 
Bright  as  the  covenant-ensuring  bow, 
Fires  all  his  feelings  with  a  noble  scorn 
Of  sensual  evil,  and  thus  Hope  is  born. 

Hope  sets  the  stamp  of  vanity  on  all 
That  men  have  deem'd  substantial  since  the  fall, 
Yet  has  the  wondrous  virtue  to  educe 
From  emptiness  itself  a  real  use  ; 
And  while  she  takes,  as  at  a  father's  hand, 
What  health  and  sober  appetite  demand, 
From  fading  good  derives,  with  chemic  art, 
That  lasting  happiness,  a  thankful  heart. 
Hope  with  uplifted  foot  set  free  from  earth, 
Pants  for  the  place  of  her  ethereal  birth, 


170  HOPE. 

On  steady  wings  sails  through  the  immense  abyss, 
Plucks  amaranthine  joys  from  bowers  of  bliss, 
And  crowns  the  soul,  while  yet  a  mourner  here, 
"With  wreaths  like  those  triumphant  spirits  wear. 
Hope,  as  an  anchor,  firm  and  sure,  holds  fast 
The  Christian  vessel,  and  defies  the  blast. 
Hope  !  nothing  else  can  nourish  and  secure 
His  new  born  virtues,  and  preserve  him  pure  ; 
Hope !  let  the  wretch,  once  conscious  of  the  joy, 
Whom  now  despairing  agonies  destroy, 
Speak,  for  he  can,  and  none  so  well  as  he, 
What  treasures  centre,  what  delights  in  thee. 
Had  he  the  gems,  the  spices,  and  the  land 
That  boasts  the  treasure,  all  at  his  command, 
The  fragrant  grove,  the  inestimable  mine, 
Were  light,  when  weigh' d  against  one  smile  of  thine. 

Though,  clasp' d  and  cradled  in  his  nurse's  arms 
He  shines  with  all  a  cherub's  artless  charms, 
Man  is  the  genuine  offspring  of  revolt, 
Stubborn  and  sturdy,  a  wild  ass's  colt ; 
His  passions,  like  the  watery  stores  that  sleep 
Beneath  the  smiling  surface  of  the  deep 
Wait  but  the  lashes  of  a  wintry  storm, 
To  frown  and  roar,  and  shake  his  feeble  form. 
From  infancy  through  childhood's  giddy  maze, 
Froward  at  school,  and  fretful  in  his  plays, 
The  puny  tyrant  burns  to  subjugate 
The  free  republic  of  the  whip-gig  state. 
If  one,  his  equal  in  athletic  frame, 
Or,  more  provoking  still,  of  nobler  name, 
Dare  step  across  his  arbitrary  views, 
An  Iliad,  only  not  in  verse,  ensues  : 
The  little  Greeks  look  trembling  at  the  scales, 
Till  the  best  tongue,  or  heaviest  hand  prevails. 

Now  see  him  launch'd  into  the  world  at  large ; 
If  priest,  supinely  droning  o'er  his  charge, 
Their  fleece  his  pillow,  and  his  weekly  drawl, 
Though  short,  too  long,  the  price  he  pays  for  all. 
If  lawyer,  loud  whatever  cause  he  plead, 
But  proudest  of  the  worst,  if  that  succeed. 
Perhaps  a  grave  physician,  gathering  fees, 
Punctually  paid  for  lengthening  out  disease ; 
No  COTTON,*  whose  humanity  sheds  rays 
That  make  superior  skill  his  second  praise. 

*  Dr.  Nathaniel  Cotton,  author  of  the  "  Visions  in  Verse."    He  kept  a  lunatic  asylum 
at  St.  Alban's,  in  which  Cowper  was  cured  of  his  first  attack  of  insanity. 


HOPE. 


171 


If  arms  engage  him,  he  devotes  to  sport 

His  date  of  life,  so  likely  to  be  short ; 

A  soldier  may  be  anything,  if  brave, 

So  may  a  tradesman,  if  not  quite  a  knave. 

Such  stuff  the  world  is  made  of ;  and  mankind, 

To  passion,  interest,  pleasure,  whim  resign'd, 

Insist  on,  as  if  each  were  his  own  Pope, 

Forgiveness  and  the  privilege  of  hope  ; 

But  Conscience,  in  some  awful  silent  hour, 

When  captivating  lusts  have  lost  their  power, 

Perhaps  when  sickness,  or  some  fearful  dream, 

Reminds  him  of  religion,  hated  theme  ! 

Starts  from  the  down,  on  which  she  lately  slept, 

And  tells  of  laws  despised,  at  least  not  kept, 

Shews  with  a  pointing  finger,  but  no  noise, 

A  pale  procession  of  past  sinful  joys, 

All  witnesses  of  blessings  foully  scorn'd, 

A  life  abused,  and  not  to  be  suborn'd. 

"  Mark  these,"  she  says  ;  "  these,  summon'd  from  afar, 

Begin  their  march  to  meet  thee  at  the  bar ; 

There  find  a  Judge,  inexorably  just, 

And  perish  there,  as  all  presumption  must." 

Peace  be  to  those  (such  peace  as  earth  can  give) 
Who  live  in  pleasure,  dead  even  while  they  live ; 
Born  capable  indeed  of  heavenly  truth, 
But  down  to  latest  age,  from  earliest  youth, 
Their  mind  a  wilderness  through  want  of  care, 
The  plough  of  wisdom  never  entering  there. 
Peace  (if  insensibility  may  claim 
A  right  to  the  meek  honors  of  her  name) 
To  men  of  pedigree  ;  their  noble  race, 
Emulous  always  of  the  nearest  place 
To  any  throne,  except  the  throne  of  grace ; 
Let  cottagers  and  unenlighten'd  swains 
Revere  the  laws  they  dream  that  Heaven  ordains, 
Resort  on  Sundays  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
And  ask,  and  fancy  they  find,  blessings  there ; 
Themselves,  perhaps,  when  weary  they  retreat 
To  enjoy  cool  nature  in  a  country  seat, 
To  exchange  the  centre  of  a  thousand  trades, 
For  clumps,  and  lawns,  and  temples,  and  cascades, 
May  now  and  then  their  velvet  cushions  take, 
And  seem  to  pray,  for  good  example  sake  ; 
Judging,  in  charity  no  doubt,  the  town 
Pious  enough,  and  having  need  of  none. 
Kind  souls !  to  teach  their  tenantry  to  prize 


172  HOPE. 

What  they  themselves,  without  remorse,  despise  : 

Nor  hope  have  they,  nor  fear,  of  ought  to  come, 

As  well  for  them  had  prophecy  been  dumb ; 

They  could  have  held  the  conduct  they  pursue, 

Had  Paul  of  Tarsus  lived  and  died  a  Jew ; 

And  truth,  proposed  to  reasoners  wise  as  they, 

Is  a  pearl  cast — completely  cast  away. 

They  die. — Death  lends  them,  pleased  and  as  in  sport 

All  the  grim  honors  of  his  ghastly  court. 

Far  other  paintings  grace  the  chamber  now, 

Where  late  we  saw  the  mimic  landscape  glow : 

The  busy  heralds  hang  the  sable  scene 

With  mournful  'scutcheons,  and  dim  lamps  between  ; 

Proclaim  their  titles  to  the  crowd  around, 

But  they  that  wore  them  move  not  at  the  sound ; 

The  coronet,  placed  idly  at  their  head, 

Adds  nothing  now  to  the  degraded  dead, 

And  even  the  star  that  glitters  on  the  bier, 

Can  only  say — Nobility  lies  here. 

Peace  to  all  such  ! — 'twere  pity  to  offend 

By  useless  censure  whom  we  cannot  mend  ; 

Life  without  hope  can  close  but  in  despair, 

'Twas  there  we  found  them,  and  must  leave  them  there. 

As  when  two  pilgrims  in  a  forest  stray, 
Both  may  be  lost,  yet  each  in  his  own  way ; 
So  fares  it  with  the  multitudes  beguiled 
In  vain  opinion's  waste  and  dangerous  wild ; 
Ten  thousand  rove  the  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Some  eastward,  arid  some  westward,  and  all  wrong. 
But  here,  alas !  the  fatal  difference  lies, 
Each  man's  belief  is  right  in  his  own  eyes ; 
And  he  that  blames  what  they  have  blindly  chose 
Incurs  resentment  for  the  love  he  shows. 

Say,  botanist !  within  whose  province  fall 
The  cedar  and  the  hyssop  on  the  wall, 
Of  all  that  deck  the  lanes,  the  fields,  the  bowers, 
What  parts  the  kindred  tribes  of  weeds  and  flowers  ? 
Sweet  scent,  or  lovely  form,  or  both  combined, 
Distinguish  every  cultivated  kind ; 
The  want  of  both  denotes  a  meaner  breed, 
And  Chloe  from  her  garland  picks  the  weed. 
Thus  hopes  of  every  sort,  whatever  sect 
Esteem  them,  sow  them,  rear  them,  and  protect, 
If  wild  in  nature,  and  riot  duly  found, 
Gethsemane !  in  thy  dear  hallow'd  ground, 
That  cannot  bear  the  blaze  of  Scripture  light, 


HOPE.  173 

Nor  cheer  the  spirit,  nor  refresh  the  sight, 

Nor  animate  tin1  soul  to  Christian  deeds, 

(Oh,  cast  theii   from  thee  !)  are  weeds,  arrant  weeds. 

Ethelred's  house,  the  centre  of  six  ways, 
Diverging  each  from  each,  like  equal  rays, 
Himself  as  bountiful  as  April  rains, 
Lord  paramount  of  the  surrounding  plains, 
Would  give  relief  of  bed  and  board  to  none, 
But  guests  that  sought  it  in  the  appointed  ONE  ; 
And  they  might  enter  at  his  open  door, 
E'en  till  his  spacious  hall  would  hold  no  more. 
He  sent  a  servant  forth  by  every  road, 
To  sound  liis  horn,  and  publish  it  abroad, 
That  all  might  mark — knight,  menial,  high,  and  low, 
An  ordinance  it  concern'd  them  much  to  know. 
If,  after  all,  some  headstrong  hardy  lout 
Would  disol)  -v,  though  sure  to  be  shut  out, 
Could  he  with  reason  murmur  at  his  case, 
Himself  sole  author  of  his  own  disgrace  ? 
No  !  the  d"!-ivt'  was  jusi.  and  without  flaw, 
And  he  that  made  had  right  to  make  the  law; 
His  sovereign  power  and  pleasure  unrestrain'd, 
The  wrong  was  his  who  wrongfully  coniplain'd. 

Yet  half  mankind  maintain  a  churlish  strife 
With  Him,  the  Donor  of  eternal  life, 
Because  the  deed,  by  which  His  love  confirms 
The  largess  I  le  bestows,  prescribes  the  terms. 
Compliance'  with  His  will  your  lot  ensures, 
Accept  it  only,  and  the  boon  is  yours  : 
And  sure  it  is  as  kind  to  smile  and  give, 
As  with  a  frown  to  say,  "  Do  this,  arid  live." 
Love  is  not  pedlar's  trumpery,  bought  arid  sold, 
He  will  give  freely,  or  He  will  withhold  ] 
His  soul  abhors  a  mercenary  thought, 
And  him  as  deeply  who  abhors  it  not. 
He  stipulates  indeed,  but  merely  this, 
That  man  will  freely  take  an  unbought  bliss, 
Will  trust  Him  for  a  faithful  generous  part, 
Nor  set  a  price  upon  a  willing  heart. 
Of  all  the  ways  that  seem  to  promise  fair 
To  place  you  where  His  saints  His  presence  share, 
This  only  can  ;  for  this  plain  cause,  express'd 
In  terms  as  plain,  Himself  has  shut  the  rest. 
But  oh  the  strife,  the  bickering,  and  debate, 
The  tidings  of  unpurchased  heaven  create  ! 
The  flirted  fan,  the  bridle,  and  the  toss, 


174  HOPE. 

All  speakers,  yet  all  language  at  a  loss. 
From  stuccoed  walls  smart  arguments  rebound  ; 
And  beaus,  adepts  in  everything  profound, 
Die  of  disdain,  or  whistle  off  the  sound. 
Such  is  the  clamor  of  rooks,  daws,  and  kites, 
The  explosion  of  the  levell'd  tube  excites, 
Adhere  mouldering  abbey  walls  o'erhang  the  glade, 
And  oaks  coeval  spread  a  mournful  shade  ; 
The  screaming  nations,  hovering  in  mid  air, 
Loudly  resent  the  stranger's  freedom  there, 
And  seem  to  warn  him  never  to  repeat 
His  bold  intrusion  on  their  dark  retreat. 

"  Adieu,"  Viriosa  cries,  ere  yet  he  sips 
The  purple  bumper  trembling  at  his  lips, 
"  Adieu  to  all  morality  !  if  Grace 
Make  works  a  vain  ingredient  in  the  case. 
The  Christian  hope  is — Waiter,  draw  the  cork — 
If  I  mistake  not — Blockhead  !  with  a  fork ! 
Without  good  works,  whatever  some  may  boast, 
Mere  folly  arid  delusion — Sir,  your  toast. 
My  firm  persuasion  is,  at  least  sometimes, 
That  Heaven  will  weigh  man's  virtues  arid  his  crimes 
With  nice  attention  in  a  righteous  scale, 
And  save,  or  damn,  as  these  or  those  prevail. 
I  plant  my  foot  upon  this  ground  of  trust, 
And  silence  every  fear  with — God  is  just. 
But  if  perchance  on  some  dull  drizzling  day 
A  thought  intrude,  that  says,  or  seems  to  say, 
If  thus  the  important  cause  is  to  be  tried, 
Suppose  the  beam  should  dip  on  the  wrong  side  ? 
I  soon  recover  from  these  needless  frights, 
And,  God  is  merciful ! — sets  all  to  rights. 
Thus  between  justice,  as  my  prime  support, 
And  mercy,  fled  to  as  the  last  resort, 
I  glide  and  steal  along  with  heaven  in  view, 
And, — pardon  me,  the  bottle  stands  with  you." 

"  I  never  will  believe,"  the  Colonel  cries, 
"  The  sanguinary  schemes  that  some  devise, 
Who  make  the  good  Creator,  on  their  plan, 
A  being  of  less  equity  than  man. 
If  appetite,,  or  what  divines  call  lust, 
Which  men  comply  with,  even  because  they  must, 
Be  puriish'd  with  perdition,  who  is  pure  ? 
Then  theirs,  no  doubt,  as  well  as  mine,  is  sure. 
If  sentence  of  eternal  pain  belong 
To  every  sudden  slip  and  transient  wrong, 


HO  Ph.  175 

Then  Heaven  enjoins  the  fallible  and  frail 
A  hopeless  task,  and  damns  them  if  they  fail. 
My  creed,  (whatever  some  creed-makers  mean 
By  Athanasian  nonsense,  or  Nicene,) 
My  creed  is,  he  is  safe  that  does  his  best, 
And  death's  a  doom  sufficient  for  the  rest." 

"  Right,"  says  an  Ensign  ;   "  and  for  aught  I  see, 
Your  faith  and  mine  substantially  agree  ; 
The  best  of  every  man's  performance  here 
Is  to  discharge  the  duties  of  his  sphere. 
A  lawyer's  dealings  should  be  just  and  fair, 
Honesty  shines  with  great  advantage  there  ; 
Fasting  and  prayer  sit  well  upon  a  priest, 
A  decent  caution  and  reserve  at  least ; 
A  soldier's  best  is,  courage  in  the  field, 
With  nothing  here  that  wants  to  be  conceaFd ; 
Manly  deportment,  gallant,  easy,  gay  ; 
A  hand  as  liberal  as  the  light  of  day  : 
The  soldier  thus  endow'd  who  never  shrinks, 
Nor  closets  up  his  thought  whate'er  he  thinks, 
Who  scorns  to  do  an  injury  by  Mcalth, 
Must  go  to  heaven — and  I  must  drink  his  health, 
Sir  Smug  1  "  he  cries,  "  (for  lowest  at  the  board, 
Just  made  fiftli  chaplain  of  his  patron  lord, 
His  shoulders  witnessing  by  many  a  shrug 
How  much  his  feelings  suffer'd,  sat  Sir  Smug), 
"  Your  office  is  to  winnow  false  from  true  ; 
Come,  prophet,  drink,  and  tell  us — What  think  you?' 

Sighing  and  smiling  as  he  takes  his  glass, 
Which  they  that  wroo  preferment  rarely  pass, 
"  Fallible  man,"  the  church-bred  youth  replies, 
"  Is  still  found  fallible,  however  wise  ; 
And  differing  judgments  serve  but  to  declare, 
That  truth  lies  somewhere,  if  we  knew  but  where, 
Of  all  it  ever  was  my  lot  to  read, 
Of  critics  now  alive  or  long  since  dead, 
The  book  of  all  the  world  that  charm'd  me  most 
Was, — well-a-day,  the  title-page  was  lost, — 
The  writer  well  remarks,  a  heart  that  knows 
To  take  with  gratitude  what  Heaven  bestows, 
With  prudence  always  ready  at  our  call, 
To  guide  our  use  of  it,  is  all  in  all. 
Doubtless  it  is.     To  which,  of  my  own  store, 
I  superadd  a  few  essentials  more  ; 
But  these,  excuse  the  liberty  I  take, 
I  waive  just  now,  for  conversation  sake." — 


176  HOPE. 

Spoke  like  an  oracle,  they  all  exclaim, 

And  add  Right  Reverend  to  Smug's  honor'd  name. 

And  yet  our  lot  is  given  us  in  a  land 
Where  busy  arts  are  never  at  a  stand ; 
Where  Science  points  her  telescopic  eye, 
Familiar  with  the  wonders  of  the  sky  ; 
Where  bold  Inquiry,  diving  out  of  sight, 
Brings  many  a  precious  pearl  of  truth  to  light ; 
Where  nought  eludes  the  persevering  quest 
That  fashion,  taste,  or  luxury  suggest. 

But,  above  all,  in  her  own  light  array'd, 
See  Mercy's  grand  apocalypse  display'd  ! 
The  sacred  book  no  longer  suffers  wrong, 
Bound  in  the  fetters  of  an  unknown  tongue, 
But  speaks  with  plainness  art  could  never  mend, 
What  simplest  minds  can  soonest  comprehend. 
God  gives  the  word,  the  preachers  throng  around, 
Live  from  His  lips,  arid  spread  the  glorious  sound: 
That  sound  bespeaks  Salvation  on  her  way, 
The  trumpet  of  a  life-restoring  day  ; 
'Tis  heard  where  England's  eastern  glory  shines, 
And  in  the  gulfs  of  her  Cornubian  mines, 
And  still  it  spreads.     See  Germany  send  forth 
Her  sons  *  to  pour  it  on  the  farthest  north  : 
Fired  with  a  zeal  peculiar,  they  defy 
The  rage  and  rigor  of  a  polar  sky, 
And  plant  successfully  sweet  Sharon's  rose 
On  icy  plains  arid  in  eternal  snows. 

Oh,  blest  within  the  enclosure  of  your  rocks, 
Nor  herds  have  ye  to  boast,  nor  bleating  flocks  ; 
No  fertilizing  streams  your  fields  divide, 
That  show  reversed  the  villas  on  their  side ; 
No  groves  have  ye  ;  no  cheerful  sound  of  bird, 
Or  voice  of  turtle  in  your  land  is  heard  ; 
Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smell 
Of  those  that  walk  at  evening  where  ye  dwell ; 
But  Winter,  arm'd  with  terrors  here  unknown, 
Sits  absolute  011  his  unshaken  throne  ; 
Piles  up  his  stores  amidst  the  frozen  waste, 
And  bids  the  mountain  he  has  built  stand  fast  j 
Beckons  the  legions  of  his  storms  away 
From  happier  scenes,  to  make  your  land  a  prey ; 
Proclaims  the  soil  a  conquest  he  has  won, 
And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  sun. 
— Yet  Truth  is  yours,  remote  unenvied  isle  ! 
*  The  Moravian  Missionaries  in  Greenland.    See  Krantz's  "  History  of  Greenland." 


HOPE.  177 

And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile  ; 
The  pride  of  letter'd  ignorance,  that  binds 
In  chain  of  error  our  accomplish'd  minds, 
That  decks  with  all  the  splendor  of  the  true, 
A  false  religion,  is  unknown  to  you. 
Nature  indeed  vouchsafes  for  our  delight 
The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night ; 
Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 
Field,  fruit  and  flowers,  and  every  creature  here  : 
But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  fires  the  skies 
Have  risen  at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes, 
That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day 
From  which  our  nicer  optics  turn  away. 

Here  see  the  encouragement  Grace  gives  to  vice, 
The  dire  ell'ect  of  mercy  without  price  I 
What  were  they  ';  what  some  fools  are  made  by  art, 
They  were  by  nature  atheists,  head  and  "heart. 
The  gross  idolatry  blind  heathens  teach 
Was  too  refined  for  them,  beyond  their  reach. 
Not  even  the  glorious  sun,  though  men  revere 
The  monarch  most  that  seldom  Avill  appear. 
And  though  his  beams  that  quicken  where  they  shine, 
May  claim  some  right  to  be  esteem'd  divine,- 
Not  even  the  sun,  desirable  as  rare, 
Could  bend  one  knee,  engage  one  votary  iliere  ; 
They  were,  what  base  credulity  believes 
True  Christians  are,  dissemblers,  drunkards,  thieves. 
The  full-gorged  savage  at  his  nauseous  t'rast, 
Spent  half  the  darkness,  and  snored  out  the  reM . 
Was  one  whom  juMire,  on  an  equal  plan 
Denouncing  death  upon  the  sins  of  man, 
Might  almost  have  indulged  with  an  escape, 
Chargeable  only  with  a  human  shape. 

What  are  they  now  ? — Morality  may  spare 
Her  grave  concern,  her  kind  suspicions  there. 
The  wretch  that  once  sang  wildly,  danced  and  laugh'd, 
And  suck'd  in  dizzy  madness  with  his  draught, 
Has  wept  a  silent  Hood,  reversed  his  ways, 
Is  sober,  meek,  benevolent,  and  prays ; 
Feeds  sparingly,  communicates  his  store, 
Abhors  the  craft  he  boasted  of  before, 
And  he  that  stole  has  learn'd  to  steal  no  more. 
Well  spake  the  prophet,  "  Let  the  desert  sing, 
Where  sprang  the  thorn  the  spiry  fir  shall  spring, 
And  where  unsightly  and  rank  thistles  grew, 
Shall  grow  the  myrtle  and  luxuriant  yew." 


HOPE. 


Go  now,  and  with  important  tone  demand 
On  what  foundation  virtue  is  to  stand, 
If  self-exalting  claims  be  turn'd  adrift, 
And  grace  be  grace  indeed,  arid  life  a  gift; 
The  poor  reclaim'd  inhabitant,  his  eyes 
Glistening  at  once  with  pity  and  surprise, 
Amazed  that  shadows  should  obscure  the  sight 
Of  one  whose  birth  was  in  a  land  of  light, 
Shall  answer  ;  "  Hope,  sweet  Hope,  has  set  me  free, 
And  made  all  pleasures  else  mere  dross  to  me." 

These,  amidst  scenes  as  waste  as  if  denied 
The  common  care  that  waits  on  all  beside, 
Wild  as  if  nature  there,  void  of  all  good, 
Play'd  only  gambols  in  a  frantic  mood 
(Yet  charge  not  heavenly  skill  with  having  plann'd 
A  plaything  world,  unworthy  of  his  hand), 
Can  see  His  love,  though  secret  evil  lurks 
In  all  we  touch,  stamp'd  plainly  on  His  works  ; 
Deem  life  a  blessing  with  its  numerous  woes, 
Nor  spurn  away  a  gift  a  God  bestows. 
Hard  task  indeed  o'er  arctic  seas  to  roam  I 
Is  hope  exotic  ?  grows  it  not  at  home  ? 
Yes  ;  but  an  object  bright  as  orient  morn 
May  press  the  eye  too  closely  to  be  borne  ; 
A  distant  virtue  we  can  all  confess, 
It  hurts  our  pride  and  moves  our  envy  less. 

Leuconomus*  (beneath  well-sounding  Greek 
I  slur  a  name  a  poet  must  not  speak) 
Stood  pilloried  on  infamy's  high  stage, 
And  bore  the  pelting  scorn  of  half  an  age  ; 
The  very  butt  of  slander,  and  the  blot 
For  every  dart  that  malice  ever  shot. 
The  man  that  mentiori'd  Mm  at  once  dismiss'd 
All  mercy  from  his  lips,  and  sneer'd  and  hiss'd  ; 
His  crimes  were  such  as  Sodom  never  knew, 
And  perjury  stood  up  to  swear  all  true  ; 
His  aim  was  mischief  arid  his  zeal  pretence, 
His  speech  rebellion  against  common  sense  ; 
A  knave  when  tried  on  honesty's  plain  rule, 
And  when  by  that  or  reason  a  mere  fool  ; 
The  world's  best  comfort  was,  his  doom  was  pass'd; 
Die  when  he  might,  he  must  be  damn'd  at  last. 

Now,  Truth,  perform  thine  office  ;  waft  aside 
The  curtain  drawn  by  prejudice  and  pride, 


*  Whitfield,  the  celebrated  preacher  and  friend  of  Wesley, 


HOPE.  179 

Reveal  (the  man  is  dead)  *  to  wondering  eyes 

This  more  than  monster  in  his  proper  guise. 

He  loved  the  world  that  hated  him  ;  the  tear 

That  dropp'd  upon  his  Bible  was  sincere. 

Assail'd  by  scandal  and  the  tongue  of  strife, 

His  only  answer  was  a  blameless  life. 

And  he  that  forged  and  he  that  threw  the  dart 

Had  each  a  brother's  interest  his  heart. 

Paul's  love  of  Christ,  and  steadiness  unbribed, 

Were  copied  close  in  him,  and  well  transcribed 

He  follow'd  Paul  ;  his  zeal  a  kindred  flame, 

His  apostolic  charity  the  same, 

Like  him,  cross'd  cheerfully  tempestuous  sen-. 

Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  ease; 

Like  him  he  labor'd,  and  like  him,  content 

To  bear  it,  suffer'd  shame  where'er  he  went, 

Blush,  Calumny  I  and  write  upon  his  tomb, 

If  honest  eulogy  can  spare  thee  room, 

Thy  deep  repentance  of  thy  thousand  lies, 

Which  aim'd  at  him,  have  piero'd  the  offended  skies  ; 

And  say,  Blot  out  my  win,  coriftjs'd,  deplored, 

Against  tiiiiiM  image  in  thy  saint,  O  Lord  I 

No  blinder  bigot,  I  maintain  it  still, 
Than  he  who  mn>r  have  pleasure,  come  what  will : 
He  laughs,  whatever  weapon  truth  may  draw, 
And  deems  her  sharp  artillery  mere  straw. 
Scripture  indeed  is  plain,  but  God  and  he 
On  Scripture  ground  are  sure  to  disagree  ; 
Some  wiser  rule  must  teach  him  how  to  live, 
Than  that  his  Maker  has  seen  fit  to  give, 
Supple  and  flexible  as  Indian  cane, 
To  take  the  bend  his  appetites  ordain, 
Contriv'd  to  suit  frail  Nature's  crazy  case, 
And  reconcile  his  lusts  with  saving  grace. 
By  this  with  nice  precision  of  design, 
He  draws  upon  life's  map  a  zigzag  line, 
That  shews  how  far  'tis  safe  to  follow  sin, 
And  where  his  danger  and  God's  wrath  begin. 
By  this  he  forms,  as  pleased  he  sports  along, 
His  well-pois'd  estimate  of  right  and  wrong ; 
And  finds  the  modish  manners  of  the  day, 
Though  loose,  as  harmless  as  an  infant's  play. 

Build  by  whatever  plan  caprice  decrees, 
With  what  materials,  on  what  ground  you  please, 

*  He  died  in  America  in  1770. 


HOPE. 


Tour  hope  shall  stand  imblamed,  perhaps  admired. 

If  not  that  hope  the  Scripture  has  required  : 

The  strange  conceits,  vain  projects,  and  wild  dreams, 

With  which  hypocrisy  forever  teems 

(Though  other  follies  strike  the  public  eye 

And  raise  a  laugh),  pass  unmolested  by  ; 

But  if,  unblameable  in  word  and  thought, 

A  MAN  arise,  a  man  whom  God  has  taught, 

With  all  Elijah's  dignity  of  tone, 

And  all  the  love  of  the  beloved  John, 

To  storm  the  citadels  they  build  in  air, 

Arid  smite  the  untemper'd  wall,  'tis  death  to  spare, 

To  sweep  away  all  refuges  of  lies, 

And  place,  instead  of  quirks  themselves  devise, 

LAMA  SABACHTHANI  before  their  eyes,  — 

To  prove  that  without  Christ  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  hope  despair,  that  stands  not  on  His  cross,  — 

Except  the  few  his  God  may  have  impress'd, 

A  tenfold  frenzy  seizes  all  the  rest. 

Throughout  mankind,  the  Christian  kind  at  least, 
There  dwells  a  consciousness  in  every  breast, 
That  folly  ends  where  genuine  hope  begins, 
And  he  that  finds  his  heaven  must  lose  his  sins. 
Nature  opposes  with  her  utmost  force 
This  riving  stroke,  this  ultimate  divorce, 
And  while  Religion  seems  to  be  her  view, 
Hates  with  a  deep  sincerity  the  true  : 
For  this,  of  all  that  ever  influenced  man, 
Since  Abel  worshipp'd  or  the  world  began, 
This  only  spares  no  lust,  admits  no  plea,  ' 
But  makes  him,  if  at  all,  completely  free  ; 
Sounds  forth  the  signal,  as  she  mounts  her  car, 
Of  an  eternal,  universal  war  ; 
Rajects  all  treaty,  penetrates  all  wiles, 
Scorns  with  the  same  indifference  frowns  and  smiles. 
Drives  through  the  realms  of  Sin,  where  Riot  reels, 
Ai.d  grinds  his  crown  beneath  her  burning  wheels  1 
Il^iice  all  that  is  in  man  —  pride,  passion,  art, 
Powers  of  the  mind,  arid  feelings  of  the  heart, 
Insensible  of  Truth's  almighty  charms, 
Starts  at  her  first  approach,  and  sounds  to  arms  t 
While  Bigotry,  with  well-dissembled  fears, 
His  eyes  shut  fast,  his  fingers  in  his  ears, 
Mighty  to  parry  and  push  by  God's  word 
With  senseless  noise,  his  argument  the  sword, 
Pretends  a  zeal  for  godliness  and  grace, 


HOPE.  181 

And  spits  abhorrence  in  the  Christian's  face. 

Parent  of  Hope,  immortal  Truth,  make  known 
Thy  deathless  wreaths  and  triumphs  all  thine  own  ! 
The  silent  progress  of  thy  power  is  such, 
Thy  means  so  feeble,  arid  despised  so  much, 
That  few  believe  the  wonders  thou  hast  wrought, 
And  none  can  teach  them  but  whom  thou  hast  taught. 
Oh  !  see  me  sworn  to  serve  thee,  arid  command 
A  painter's  skill  into  a  poet's  hum!  ; 
That  while  I  trembling  trace  a  wo  d  divine, 
Fancy  may  stand  aloof  from  the  do  LH. 
And  light  and  shade  arid  every  stroke  be  thine. 

If  ever  thou  hast  felt  another's  pain, 
If  ever  when  he  sigh'd,  hast  sigh'd  again, 
If  ever  on  thy  eyelid  stood  a  tear 
That  pity  had  engender  d,  drop  one  here. 
This  man  was  happy,  had  the  world's  ^ood  word, 
And  with  it  every  joy  ii  can  alVord  ; 
Friendship  and  love  seem'd  tenderly  at  strife, 
Which  most  should  sweeten  his  untroubled  life; 
Politely  learn'd,  and  of  a  p>ntle  ra< 
Good  breeding  and  good  sense  gave  all  a  grace, 
And  whether  at  the  toilet  of  the  fa  it- 
He  laughed  ami  trilled,  made  him  welcome  there; 
Or  if  in  masculine  debate  he  shared, 
Ensured  him  mute  attention  and  regard. 
Alas,  how  changed  !     Expressive  of  his  mind, 
His  eyes  are  sunk,  arms  folded,  head  reclined  ; 
Those  awful  syllables — hell,  death,  and  sin, 
Though  whispered,  plainly  tell  what  works  within, 
That  conscience  there  performs  her  proper  part, 
And  writes  a  doomsday  sentence  on  his  heart, 
Forsaking,  and  forsaken  of  all  friends, 
He  now  perceives  where  earthly  pleasure  ends  ; 
Hard  task  for  one  who  lately  knew  no  care, 
And  harder  still  as  learnt  beneath  despair  : 
His  hours  no  longer  pass  unmark'd  away, 
A  dark  importance  saddens  every  day  ; 
He  hears  the  notice  of  the  clock  perplex'd, 
And  cries,  "  Perhaps  eternity  strikes  next  I ' 
Sweet  music  is  no  longer  music  here, 
And  laughter  sounds  like  madness  in  his  ear  ; 
His  grief  the  world  of  all  her  power  disarms, 
Wine  has  no  taste,  and  beauty  has  no  charms  • 
God's  holy  word,  once  trivial  in  his  view, 
Now  by  the  voice  of  his  experience  true, 


182  HOPE. 

Seems,  as  it  is,  the  fountain  whence  alone 

Must  spring  that  hope  he  pants  to  make  his  own. 

Now  let  the  bright  reverse  be  known  abroad  ; 
Say  man's  a  worm,  arid  power  belongs  to  God. 
As  when  a  felon  whom  his  country's  laws 
Have  justly  doom'd  for  some  atrocious  cause, 
Expects  in  darkness  and  heart-chilling  fears, 
The  shameful  close  of  all  his  mis-spent  years, 
If  chance,  on  heavy  pinions  slowly  borne, 
A  tempest  usher  in  the  dreaded  morn, 
Upon  his  dungeon  walls  the  lightnings  play, 
The  thunder  seems  to  summon  him  away, 
The  warder  at  the  door  his  key  applies, 
Shoots  back  the  bolt,  and  all  his  courage  dies  : 
If  then,  just  then,  all  thoughts  of  mercy  lost, 
When  hope,  long  lingering,  at  last  yields  the  ghost, 
The  sound  of  pardon  pierce  his  startled  ear, 
He  drops  at  once  his  fetters  and  his  fear, 
A  transport  glows  in  all  he  looks  and  speaks, 
And  the  first  thankful  tears  bedew  his  cheeks. 
Joy,  far  superior  joy,  that  much  outweighs 
The  comfort  of  a  few  poor  added  days, 
Invades,  possesses,  and  o'erwhelms  the  soul 
Of  him  whom  Hope  has  with  a  touch  made  whole ; 
'Tis  heaven,  all  heaven  descending  on  the  wings 
Of  the  glad  legions  of  the  King  of  kings  ; 
'Tis  more, — 'tis  God  diffused  through  every  part, 
'Tis  God  Himself  triumphant  in  his  heart. 
Oh,  welcome  now  the  sun's  once  hated  light, 
His  noon-day  beams  were  never  half  so  bright. 
Not  kindred  minds  alone  are  call'd  to  employ 
Their  hours,  their  days,  in  listening  to  his  joy, 
Unconscious  nature,  all  that  he  surveys, 
Rocks,  groves,  and  streams,  must  join  him  in  his  praise. 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  eternal  Truth, 
The  scoff  of  wither'd  age  arid  beardless  youth  ; 
These  move  the  censure  and  illiberal  grin 
Of  fools  that  hate  thee  and  delight  in  sin  ; 
But  these  shall  last  when  night  has  quench'd  the  pole, 
And  heaven  is  all  departed  as  a  scroll : 
And  when,  as  justice  has  long  since  decreed, 
This  earth  shall  blaze,  and  a  new  world  succeed. 
Then  these  thy  glorious  works,  and  they  who  share 
That  hope  which  can  alone  exclude  despair, 
Shall  live  exempt  from  weakness  and  decay 
The  brightest  wonders  of  an  endless  day. 


HOPE.  183 


Happy  the  bard  (if  that  fair  name  belong 
To  him  that  blends  no  fable  with  his  song) 
Whose  lines  uniting  by  an  honest  art, 
The  faithful  monitor's  and  poet's  part, 
Seek  to  delight  that  they  may  mend  mankind, 
And  while  they  captivate,  inform  the  mind  ; 
Still  happier,  if  he  till  a  thankful  soil, 
And  fruit  reward  his  honorable  toil : 
But  happier  far  who  comfort  those  that  wait 
To  hear  plain  truth  at  Judah's  hallow'd  gate  : 
Their  language  simple,  as  their  manners  meek, 
No  shining  ornaments  have  they  to  seek  ; 
Nor  labor  they,  nor  time  nor  talents  waste, 
In  sorting  flowers  to  suit  a  fickle  taste  ; 
But  while  they  speak  the  wisdom  of  the  skies, 
Which  art  can  only  darken  and  disguix-. 
The  abundant  harvest,  recompense  divine, 
Repays  their  work, — the  gleaning  only  mine. 


184  CHARITY. 


CHARITY* 


ARGUMENT. 

Invocation  to  Charity — Social  ties — Tribute  to  the  humanity  of  Captain  Cook — His 
character  contrasted  with  that  of  Cortez,  the  conqueror  of  Mexico— Degradation 
of  Spain — Purpose  of  commerce — Gifts  of  art — The  slave-trade  and  slavery — Slavery 
unnatural  and  unchristian— The  duty  of  abating  the  woes  of  that  state,  and  of  en- 
lightening the  mind  of  the  slave,  enforced — Apostrophe  to  Libe.t> — Charity  of 
Howard — Pursuits  of  Philosophy — Reason  learns  nothing  aright  without  the  lamp 
of  Revelation — True  charity  the  offspring  of  Divine  truth — Supposed  ca,*e  of  a 
blind  nation  and  an  optician— Portrait  of  Charity— Beauty  of  the  Apostle's  defini- 
tion of  it — Alms  as  the  means  of  lulling  conscience — Pride  and  ostentation — Char- 
acter of  satire — True  charity  inculcated— Christian  charity  should  be  universal — 
Happy  effects  that  would  result  from  universal  charity. 

*  The  following  rhyming  epistle  from  Cowper  to  Newton  explains  his  views  in 
writing  "  charity  :  "— 

July  12,  1781. 

MY  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  am  going  to  send,  what  when  you  have 
read,  you  may  scratch  your  head,  and  say,  I  suppose,  there's  nobody  knows 
whether  that  I  have  got  be  verse  or  not  ; — by  the  tune  and  the  time,  it 
ought  to  be  rhyme,  but  if  it  be,  did  you  ever  see,  of  late  or  of  yore,  such 
a  ditty  before  ? 

I  have  writ  Charity,  not  for  popularity,  but  as  well  as  I  could,  in  hopes 
to  do  good;  and  if  the  reviewer  should  say  "  To  be  sure,  the  gentleman's 
muse  wears  Methodist  shoes,  you  may  know  by  his  pace  and  talk  about 
grace,  that  she  and  her  bard  have  little  regard  for  the  taste  and  fashions, 
and  ruling  passions,  and  hoydening  play,  of  the  modern  day;  and  though 
she  assume  a  borrowed  plume,  and  now  and  then  wear  a  tittering  air,  'tis 
only  her  plan  to  catch  if  she  can,  the  giddy  and  gay,  as  they  go  that  way, 
by  a  production  on  a  new  construction ;  she  has  baited  her  trap  in  hopes 
to  snap  all  that  may  come  with  a  sugar-plum."  His  opinion  in  this  will 
not  be  amiss  ;  'tis  what  I  intend,  my  principal  end,  and  if  I  succeed,  and 
folks  should  read,  till  a  few  are  brought  to  a  serious  thought,  I  shall  think 
I  am  paid  for  ail  I  have  said  and  all  I  have  done,  though  I  have  run,  many 
a  time,  after  a  rhyme,  as  far  as  from  hence  to  the  end  of  my  sense,  and  by 
hook  or  by  crook  write  another  book,  if  I  live  and  am  here,  another  year. 

I  have  heard  before,  of  a  room  with  a  floor,  laid  upon  springs  and  sucl: 
like  things,  with  so  much  art,  in  every  part,  that  when  you  went  in,  yo 
were  forced  to  begin  a  minuet  pace,  with  an  air  and  a  grace,  swimming 
about,  now  in  and  now  out,  with  a  deal  of  state,  in  a  figure  of  eight,  with- 
out pipe  or  string,  or  any  such  thing  :  and  now  I  have  writ,  in  a  rhyming 
fit,  what  will  make  you  dance,   and,  as  you  advance,  wil    keep  yo 
though  against  your  will,  dancing  away,  alert  and  gay,  till  you  come  to  an 
end  of  what  I  have  permed,  which  that  you  may  do,  ere  madam   and  yo 
are  quite  worn  out  with  jigging  about,  I  take  my  leave,  and  here  yo 
receive  a  bow  profound,  down  to   the  ground,  from  your  humble  me.- 
W.  C. 


CHARITY.  185 


"  Quo  nihil  majus  meliusve  terris 
Fata  donavere,  bonique  divi  ; 
Nee  dabunt,  quamyis  redeant  in  aurum 
Tempora  priscum." 

HOB.  lib.  iv.  Ode  2. 

FAIREST  and  foremost  of  the  train  that  wait 

On  man's  most  dignified  and  happiest  state, 

Whether  we  name  thee  Charity  or  Love, 

Chief  grace  below,  and  all  in  all  above, 

Prosper  (I  press  thee  with  a  powerful  plea) 

A  task  I  venture  on,  impell'd  by  thee : 

Oh  !  never  seen  but  in  thy  blest  effects, 

Or  felt  but  in  the  soul  tkat  Heaven  selects, 

Who  seeks  to  praise  thee,  and  to  make  thee  known 

To  other  hearts,  must  have  thee  in  his  own. 

Come,  prompt  me  with  benevolent  desires, 

Teach  me  to  kindle  at  thy  gentle  fires, 

And  though  disgraced  and  slighted,  to  redeem 

A  poet's  name,  by  making  thee  the  theme. 

God,  working  ever  on  a  social  plan, 
By  various  ties  attaches  man  to  man : 
He  made  at  first,  though  free  and  unconfined, 
One  man  the  common  father  of  the  kind  j 
That  every  tribe,  though  placed  as  He  sees  best, 
Where  seas  or  deserts  part  them  from  the  rest, 
Differing  in  language,  manners,  or  in  face, 
Might  feel  themselves  allied  to  all  the  race. 
When  Cook — lamented,  and  with  tears  as  just 
As  ever  mingled  with  heroic  dust,*— 
Steer'd  Britain's  oak  into  a  world  unknown, 
And  in  his  country's  glory  sought  his  own, 
Wherever  he  found  man,  to  nature  true, 
The  rights  of  man  were  sacred  in  his  view ; 
He  soothed  with  gifts,  and  greeted  with  a  smile, 
The  simple  native  of  the  new-found  isle  ; 
He  spurn'd  the  Avretch  that  slighted  or  withstood 
The  tender  argument  of  kindred  blood, 
Nor  would  endure  that  any  should  control 
His  freeborn  brethren  of  the  southern  pole. 

But  though  some  nobler  minds  a  law  respect, 
That  none  shall  with  impunity  neglect, 
In  baser  souls  unnumber'd  evils  meet, 
To  thwart  its  influence,  and  its  end  defeat. 
While  Cook  is  loved  for  savage  lives  he  saved, 
See  Cortez  odious  for  a  world  enslaved  ! 

*  Captain  Cook,  tne  great  navigator,  was  killed  by  savages  at  Hawaii,  1779. 


186  CHARITY. 


Where  wast  thou  then,  sweet  Charity,  where  then, 

Thou  tutelary  friend  of  helpless  men  ? 

Wast  thou  in  monkish  cells  and  nunneries  found, 

Or  building  hospitals  on  English  ground  ? 

No  ! — Mammon  makes  the  world  his  legatee 

Through  fear,  not  love  ;  and  Heaven  abhors  the  fee. 

Wherever  found,  (and  all  men  need  thy  care,) 

Nor  age  nor  infancy  could  find  thee  there. 

The  hand  that  slew  till  it  could  slay  no  more 

Was  glued  to  the  sword-hilt  with  Indian  gore. 

Their  prince,  as  justly  seated  on  his  throne 

As  vain  imperial  Philip  *  on  his  own, 

Trick' d  out  of  all  his  royalty  by  art, 

That  stripp'd  him  bare,  and  broke  his  honest  heart, 

Died,  by  the  sentence  of  a  shaven  priest, 

For  scorning  what  they  taught  him  to  detest. 

How  dark  the  veil  that  intercepts  the  blaze 

Of  Heaven's  mysterious  purposes  and  ways  ! 

God  stood  not,  though  He  seem'd  to  stand,  aloof, 

And  at  this  hour  the  conqueror  feels  the  proof : 

The  wreath  he  won  drew  down  an  instant  curse, 

The  fretting  plague  is  in  the  public  purse, 

The  canker' d  spoil  corrodes  the  pining  state, 

Starv'd  by  that  indolence  their  mines  create. 

Oh,  could  their  ancient  Incas  rise  again, 
How  would  they  take  up  Israel's  taunting  strain  1 
"  Art  thou  too  fallen,  Iberia  ?    Do  we  see 
The  robber  and  the  murderer  weak  as  we  ? 
Thou,  that  hast  wasted  earth,  and  dared  despise 
Alike  the  wrath  and  mercy  of  the  skies, 
Thy  pomp  is  in  the  grave,  thy  glory  laid 
Low  in  the  pits  thine  avarice  has  made. 
We  come  with  joy  from  our  eternal  rest, 
To  see  the  oppressor  in  his  turn  oppress' d. 
Art  thou  the  god  the  thunder  of  whose  hand 
Roll'd  over  all  our  desolated  land, 
Shook  principalities  and  kingdoms  down, 
And  made  the  mountains  tremble  at  his  frown  ? 
The  sword  shall  light  upon  thy  boasted  powers, 
And  waste  them,  as  thy  sword  has  wasted  ours. 
'Tis  thus  Omnipotence  his  law  fulfils, 
And  vengeance  executes  what  justice  wills." 

Again — the  band  of  commerce  was  design'd 
To  associate  all  the  branches  of  mankind  ; 


9  The  poet  mistook  ;  Cortez  conquered  Mexico  in  the  reign  of  Charles  V.,  not  Philip  II. 


CHARITY.  187 


And  if  a  boundless  plenty  be  the  robe, 
Trade  is  the  golden  girdle  of  the  globe. 
Wise  to  promote  whatever  end  he  means, 
God  opens  fruitful  Nature's  various  scenes  ; 
Each  climate  needs  what  other  clinics  produce, 
And  offers  something  to  the  general  use  ; 
No  land  but  listens  to  the  common  call, 
And  in  return  receives  supply  from  all. 
This  genial  intercourse,  and  mutual  aid, 
Cheers  what  were  else  a  universal  shade, 
Calls  Nature  from  her  ivy-mantled  den, 
And  softens  human  rock-work  into   men. 
Ingenious  Art,  with  her  expressive  face, 
Steps  forth  to  fashion  and  refine  the  race, 
Not  only  fills  necessity's  demand, 
But  overcharges  her  capacious  hand : 
Capricious  taste  itself  can  crave  no  more 
Than  she  supplies  from  her  abounding  store  : 
She  strikes  out  all  that  luxury  can  aek, 
And  gains  new  vigor  at  her  endless  task. 
Hers  is  the  spacious  arch,  the  shapely  spire, 
The  painter's  pencil,  and  the  poet's  lyre  ; 
From  her  the  canvas  borrows  light  and  shade, 
And  verse,  more  lasting,  hues  that  never  fade. 
She  guides  the  finger  o'er  the  dancing  keys, 
Gives  difficulty  all  the  grace  of  ease, 
And  pours  a  torrent  of  sweet  notes  around, 
Fast  as  the  thirsting  ear  can  drink  the  sound. 

These  are  the  gifts  of  Art ;  and  Art  thrives  most 
Where  Commerce  has  enrich'd  the  busy  coast ; 
He  catches  all  improvements  in  his  flight, 
Spreads  foreign  wonders  in  his  country's  sight, 
Imports  what  others  have  invented  well, 
And  stirs  his  own  to  match  them  or  excel. 
'Tis  thus  reciprocating  each  with  each, 
Alternately  the  nations  learn  and  teach  ; 
While  Providence  enjoins  to  every  soul 
A  union  with  the  vast  terraqueous  whole. 

Heaven  speed  the  canvas,  gallantly  unfurl'd 
To  furnish  and  accommodate  a  world, 
To  give  the  pole  the  produce  of  the  sun, 
And  knit  the  unsocial  climates  into  one  1 
Soft  airs  and  gentle  heavings  of  the  wave, 
Impel  the  fleet,  whose  errand  is  to  save. 
To  succor  wasted  regions,  and  replace 
The  smile  of  opulence  in  sorrow's  face  I 


1 88  CHARITY. 


Let  nothing  adverse,  nothing  unforeseen, 

Impede  the  bark  that  ploughs  the  deep  serene, 

Charged  with  a  freight  transcending  in  its  worth 

The  gems  of  India,  Nature's  rarest  birth, 

That  flies,  like  Gabriel  on  his  Lord's  commands, 

A  herald  of  God's  love  to  pagan  lands ! 

But  ah  !  what  wish  can  prosper,  or  what  prayer, 

From  merchants  rich  in  cargoes  of  despair, 

Who  drive  a  loathsome  traffic,  gauge  and  span 

And  buy  the  muscles  and  the  bones  of  man  ? 

The  tender  ties  of  father,  husband,  friend, 

All  bonds  of  nature  in  that  moment  end ; 

And  each  endures,  while  yet  he  draws  his  breath, 

A  stroke  as  fatal  as  the  scythe  of  death. 

The  sable  warrior,  frantic  with  regret 

Of  her  he  loves  and  never  can  forget, 

Loses  in  tears  the  far-receding  shore, 

But  not  the  thought  that  they  must  meet  no  more. 

Deprived  of  her  and  freedom  at  a  blow, 

What  has  he  left  that  he  can  yet  forego  ? 

Yes,  to  deep  sadness  sullenly  resign'd, 

He  feels  his  body's  bondage  in  his  mind  ; 

Puts  off  his  generous  nature  ;  and,  to  suit 

His  manners  with  his  fate,  puts  on  the  brute. 

Oh  most  degrading  of  all  ills  that  wait 
On  man,  a  mourner  in  his  best  estate  ! 
All  other  sorrows  virtue  may  endure, 
And  find  submission  more  then  half  a  cure ; 
Grief  is  itself  a  medicine,  and  bestow' d 
To  improve  the  fortitude  that  bears  the  load, 
To  teach  the  wanderer,  as  his  woes  increase, 
The  path  of  wisdom,  all  whose  paths  are  peace  ; 
But  slavery  ! — Virtue  dreads  it  as  her  grave : 
Patience  itself  is  meanness  in  a,  slave ; 
Or  if  the  will  and  sovereignty  of  God 
Bid  suffer  it  a  while,  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Wait  for  the  dawning  of  a  brighter  day, 
And  snap  the  chain  the  moment  when  you  may. 
Nature  imprints  upon  whate'er  we  see, 
That  has  a  heart  and  life  in  it,  "  Be  free  !  " 
The  beasts  are  charter' d — neither  age  nor  force 
Can  quell  the  love  of  freedom  in  a  horse  : 
He  breaks  the  cord  that  held  him  at  the  rack, 
And,  conscious  of  an  unincumber'd  back, 
Snuffs  up  the  morning  air,  forgets  the  rein, 
Loose  fly  his  forelock  and  his  ample  mane, 


CHARITY.  I  £9 


Responsive  to  the  distant  neigh  he  neighs, 

Nor  stops,  till,  overleaping  all  delays, 

He  finds  the  pasture  where  his  fellows  graze. 

Canst  thou,  and  honor'd  with  a  Christian  name, 
Buy  what  is  woman-born,  and  feel  no  shame? 
Trade  in  the  blood  of  innocence,  and  plead 
Expedience  as  a  warrant  for  the  deed  ? 
So  may  the  wolf,  whom  famine  has  made  bold 
To  quit  the  forest  and  invade  the  fold  : 
So  may  the  ruffian,  who  with  ghostly  glide, 
Dagger  in  hand,  steals  close  to  your  bedside; 
Not  he,  but  his  emergence,  forced  the  door, 
He  found  it  inconvenient  to  be  poor. 
Has  God  then  given  its  sweetness  to  the  cane, 
Unless  Ilis  laws  be  trampled  on — in  vain  ? 
Built  a  brave  world,  which  cannot  yet  subsist, 
Unless  His  right  to  rule  it  be  disrniss'd  ? 
Impudent  blasphemy  !     So  Folly  pleads. 
And  Avarice  being  judge,  with  ease  succeeds. 

But  grant  the  plea,  and  let  it  stand  for  just, 
That  man  make  man  his  prey,  because  he  must; 
Still  there  is  room  for  pity  to  abate 
And  soothe  the  sorrows  of  so  sad  a  state. 
A  Briton  knows,  or  if  he  knows  it  not, 
The  Scripture  placed  within  his  reach,  he  ought 
That  souls  have  n<»  discriminating  hue, 
Alike  important  in  their  Maker's  view  ; 
That  none  are  free  from  blemish  since  the  fall, 
And  love  divine  has  paid  one  price  for  all. 
That  wretch  that  works  and  weeps  without  relief 
Has  one  that  notices  his  silent  grief. 
He,  from  whose  hand  alone  all  power  proceeds, 
Ranks  its  abuse  among  the  foulest  deeds, 
Considers  all  injustice  with  a  frown  '3 
But  marks  the  man  that  treads  his  fellow  down. 
Begone  ! — the  whip  and  bell  in  that  hard  hand 
Are  hateful  ensigns  of  usurp' d  command  ; 
Not  Mexico  could  purchase  kings  a  claim 
To  scourge  him,  weariness  his  only  blame. 
Remember,  Heaven  has  an  avenging  rod  ; 
To  smite  the  poor  is  treason  against  God  1 

Trouble  is  grudgingly  and  hardly  brook'd, 
While  life's  sublimest  joys  are  overlook'd : 
We  wander  o'er  a  sunburnt  thirsty  soil, 
Murmuring  and  weary  of  our  daily  toil, 
Forget  to  enjoy  the  palm-tree's  offer'd  shade, 


190  CHARITY. 


Or  taste  the  fountain  in  the  neighboring  glade  : 

Else  who  would  lose,  that  had  the  power  to  improve 

The  occasion  of  transmuting  fear  to  love  ? 

Oh,  'tis  a  godlike  privilege  to  save, 

And  he  that  scorns  it  is  himself  a  slave. 

Inform  his  mind  ;  one  flash  of  heavenly  day 

Would  heal  his  heart,  and  melt  his  chains  away. 

"  Beauty  for  ashes"  is  a  gift  indeed, 

And  slaves,  by  truth  enlarged,  are  doubly  freed. 

Then  would  he  say,  submissive  at  thy  feet, 

While  gratitude  and  love  made  service  sweet, 

' '  My  dear  deliverer  out  of  hopeless  night, 

Whose  bounty  bought  me  but  to  give  me  light, 

I  was  a  bondman  on  my  native  plain, 

Sin  forged,  and  ignorance  made  fast,  the  chain  ; 

Thy  lips  have  shed  instruction  as  the  dew, 

Taught  me  what  path  to  shun,  and  what  pursue  ; 

Farewell  my  former  joys  !  I  sigh  no  more 

For  Africa's  once  loved,  benighted  shore ; 

Serving  a  benefactor,  I  am  free  ; 

At  my  best  home,  if  not  exiled  from  thee." 

Some  men  make  gain  a  fountain,  whence  proceeds 
A  stream  of  liberal  and  heroic  deeds  ; 
The  swell  of  pity,  not  to  be  confined 
Within  the  scanty  limits  of  the  mind, 
Disdains  the  bank,  and  throws  the  golden  sands 
A  rich  deposit,  on  the  bordering  lands  : 
These  have  an  ear  for  His  paternal  call, 
Who  makes  some  rich  for  the  supply  of  all, 
God's  gift  with  pleasure  in  His  praise  employ ; 
And  THORNTON  is  familiar  with  the  joy.* 

Oh,  could  I  worship  aught  beneath  the  skies, 
That  earth  has  seen,  or  fancy  can  devise, 
Thine  altar,  sacred  Liberty,  should  stand, 
Built  by  no  mercenary  vulgar  hand, 
With  fragrant  turf,  and  flowers  as  wild  arid  fair 
As  ever  dress'd  a  bank,  or  scented  summer  air 
Duly,  as  ever  on  the  mountain's  height 
The  peep  of  morning  shed  a  dawning  light, 
Again,  when  evening  in  her  sober  vest 
Drew  the  gray  curtain  of  the  fading  west, 
My  soul  should  yield  thee  willing  thanks  and  praise, 
For  the  chief  blessings  of  my  fairest  days  : 
But  that  were  sacrilege ; — praise  is  not  thine, 


*  John  Thornton,  a  London  merchant,  famous  for  his  philanthropy. 


CHARITY.  19 J 


But  His  who  gave  thee,  and  preserves  thee  mine  : 

Else  I  would  say,  and  as  I  spake  bid  fly 

A  captive  bird  into  the  boundless  sky, 

"  This  triple  realm  adores  thee  ; — thou  art  come 

From  Sparta  hither,  and  art  here  at  home. 

We  feel  thy  force  still  active,  at  this  hour 

Enjoy  immunity  from  priestly  power, 

While  conscience,  happier  than  in  ancient  years, 

Owns  no  superior  but  the  God  she  fears. 

Propitious  spirit !  yet  expunge  a  wrong 

Thy  rights  have  suffer'd,  and  our  land,  too  long. 

Teach  mercy  to  ten  thousand  hearts  that  share 

The  fears  and  hopes  of  a  commercial  care ; 

Prisons  expect  the  wicked,  and  were  built 

To  bind  the  lawless  and  to  punish  guilt  ; 

But  shipwreck,  earthquake,  battle,  fire,  and  flood 

Are  mighty  mischiefs,  not  to  be  withstood  ; 

And  honest  merit  stands  on  slippery  ground, 

Where  covert  guile  and  artifice  abound. 

Let  just  restraint,  for  public  peace  design' d, 

Chain  up  the  wolves  and  tigers  of  mankind; 

The  foe  of  virtue  has  no  claim  to  thee, 

But  let  insolvent  innocence  go  free." 

Patron  of  el-e  the  moM  despised  of  men, 
Accept  the  tribute  of  a  stranger's  pen  • 
Verse,  like  the  laurel  its  immortal  meed, 
Should  be  the  guerdon  of  a  noble  deed  ; 
I  may  alarm  thee,  but  I  fear  the  shame 
(Charity  chosen  as  my  theme  and  aim) 
1  must  incur,  forgetting  HOWARD'S  name.* 
Blest  with  all  wealth  can  give  thee,  to  resign 
Joys  doubly  sweet  to  feelings  quick  ;i  ;  thine, 
To  quit  the  bliss  thy  rural  scenes  bestow, 
To  seek  a  nobler  amidst  seem  s  of  woe, 
To  traverse  seas,  range  kingdoms,  and  bring  home, 
Not  the  proud  monuments  of  Greece  or  Rome, 
But  knowledge  such  as  only  dungeons  teach, 
And  only  sympathy  like  thine  could  reach  ; 
That  grief,  sequester'd  from  the  public  stage, 
Might  smooth  her  feathers  and  enjoy  her  cage  ; 
Speaks  a  divine  ambition,  and  a  zeal, 
The  boldest  patriot  might  be  proud  to  feel. 
Oh  that  the  voice  of  clamor  and  debate, 
That  pleads  for  peace  till  it  disturbs  the  state, 


*  John  Howard,  the  celebrated  philanthropist  and  visitor  of  prisons. 


192  CHARITY. 


Were  hush'd  in  favor  of  thy  generous  plea, 

The  poor  thy  clients,  and  Heaven's  smile  thy  fee; 

Philosophy  that  does  not  dream  or  stray, 
Walks  arm  in  arm  with  Nature  all  his  way, 
Compasses  earth,  dives  into  it,  ascends 
Whatever  steep  inquiry  recommends. 
Sees  planetary  wonders  smoothly  roll 
Round  other  systems  under  her  control, 
Drinks  wisdom  at  the  milky  stream  of  light 
That  cheers  the  silent  journey  of  the  night, 
And  brings  at  his  return  a  bosom  charged 
With  rich  instruction,  and  a  soul  enlarged. 
The  treasured  sweets  of  the  capacious  plan 
That  Heaven  spreads  wide  before  the  view  of  man, 
All  prompt  his  pleased  pursuit,  and  to  pursue 
Still  prompt  him,  with  a  pleasure  always  new  ; 
He  too  has  a  connecting  power,  and  draws, 
Man  to  the  centre  of  the  common  cause. 
Aiding  a  dubious  and  deficient  sight 
With  a  new  medium  and  a  purer  light. 
All  truth  is  precious,  if  not  all  divine, 
And  what  dilates  the  powers  must  needs  refine. 
He  reads  the  skies,  and,  watching  every  change, 
Provides  the  faculties  an  ampler  range, 
And  wins  mankind,  as  his  attempts  prevail, 
A  prouder  station  on  the  general  scale. 
But  Reason  still,  unless  divinely  taught, 
Whate'er  she  learns,  learns  nothing  as  she  ought ; 
The  lamp  of  revelation  only  shows, 
What  human  wisdom  cannot  but  oppose, 
That  man  in  nature's  richest  mantle  clad, 
And  graced  with  all  philosophy  can  add, 
Though  fair  without,  and  luminous  within, 
Is  still  the  progeny  and  heir  of  sin. 
Thus  taught,  down  falls  the  plumage  of  his  pride  j 
He  feels  his  need  of  an  unerring  guide, 
And  knows  that  falling  he  shall  rise  no  more, 
Unless  the  power  that  bade  him  stand,  restore. 
This  is  indeed  philosophy  ;  this  known, 
Makes  wisdom,  worthy  of  the  name,  his  own; 
And  without  this,  whatever  he  discuss, 
Whether  the  space  between  the  stars  and  us, 
Whether  he  measure  earth,  compute  the  sea. 
Weigh  sunbeams,  carve  a  fly,  or  spit  a  flea, 
The  solemn  trifler  with  his  boasted  skill 
Toils  much,  and  is  a  solemn  trifler  stl* 


CHARITY. 


Blind  was  he  born,  and  his  misguided  eyes 
Grown  dim  in  trifling  studies,  blind  he  dies. 
Self-knowledge  truly  learn'd,  of  course  implies 
The  rich  possession  of  a  nobler  prize  ; 
For  self  to  self,  and  God  to  man,  reveal'd 
(Two  themes  to  Nature's  eye  forever  seal'd), 
Are  taught  by  rays  that  fly  with  equal  pace 
From  the  same  centre  of  enlightening  grace. 

Here  stay  thy  foot ;  how  copious  and  how  clear 
The  o'erflowing  well  of  Charity  springs  here  1 
Hark !  'tis  the  music  of  a  thousand  rills, 
Some  through  the  groves,  some  down  the  sloping  hills, 
Winding  a  secret  or  an  open  course, 
And  all  supplied  from  an  eternal  source. 
The  ties  of  nature  do  but  feebly  bind, 
And  commerce  partially  reclaims,  mankind  ; 
Philosophy,  without  his  heavenly  guide, 
May  blow  up  self-conceit,  and  nourish  pride ; 
But  while  his  province  is  the  reasoning  part, 
Has  still  a  veil  of  midnight  on  his  heart : 
Tis  Truth  divine  exhibited  on  earth, 
Gives  Charity  her  being  and  her  birth. 

Suppose  (when  thought  is  warm  and  fancy  flows, 
What  will  not  argument  sometimes  suppose  ?) 
An  isle  possess'd  by  creatures  of  our  kind, 
Endued  with  reason,  yet  by  nature  blind. 
Let  supposition  lend  her  aid  once  more, 
And  land  some  grave  optician  on  the  shore  : 
He  claps  his  lens,  if  haply  they  may  see, 
Close  to  the  part  where  vision  ought  to  be ; 
But  finds  that  though  his  tubes  assist  the  sight, 
They  cannot  give  it,  or  make  darkness  light. 
He  reads  wise  lectures,  and  describes  aloud 
A  sense  they  know  not  to  the  wondering  crowd  ; 
He  talks  of  light  and  the  prismatic  hues, 
As  men  of  depth  in  erudition  use  ; 
But  all  he  gains  for  his  harangue  is — "  Well, 
What  monstrous  lies  some  travellers  will  tell ! ' 

The  soul,  whose  sight  all-quickening  grace  renews, 
Takes  the  resemblance  of  the  good  she  views, 
As  diamonds  stripp'd  of  their  opaque  disguise, 
Reflect  the  noonday  glory  of  the  skies. 
She  speaks  of  Him,  her  author,  guardian,  friend, 
Whose  love  knew  no  beginning,  knows  no  end, 
In  language  warm  as  all  that  love  inspires, 
And,  in  the  glow  of  her  intense  desires, 
/  13 


j  94  CHARITY. 


Pants  to  communicate  her  noble  fires. 
She  sees  a  world  stark  blind  to  what  employs 
Her  eager  thought, 'and  feeds  her  flowing  joys  ; 
Though  wisdom  hail  them,  heedless  of  her  call, 
Flies  to  save  some,  and  feels  a  pang  for  all : 
Herself  as  weak  as  her  support  is  strong, 
She  feels  that  frailty  she  denied  so  long, 
And,  from  a  knowledge  of  her  own  disease, 
Learns  to  compassionate  the  sick  she  sees. 
Here  see,  acquitted  of  all  vain  pretence, 
The  reign  of  genuine  Charity  commence  : 
Though  scorn  repay  her  sympathetic  tears, 
She  still  is  kind,  and  still  she  perseveres  ; 
The  Truth  she  loves,  a  sightless  world  blaspheme, 
'Tis  childish  dotage,  a  delirious  dream  ! 
The  danger  they  discern  not  they  deny ; 
Laugh  at  their  only  remedy,  and  die. 
But  still  a  soul  thus  touch'd  can  never  cease, 
Whoever  threatens  war,  to  speak  of  peace. 
Pure  in  her  aim  and  in  her  temper  mild, 
Her  wisdom  seems  the  weakness  of  a  child  : 
She  makes  excuses  where  she  might  condemn, 
Reviled  by  those  that  hate  her,  prays  for  them  \ 
Suspicion  lurks  not  in  her  artless  breast, 
The  worst  suggested,  she  believes  the  best ; 
Not  soon  provoked,  however  stung  and  teased, 
And  if  perhaps  made  angry,  soon  appeased  ; 
She  rather  waives  than  will  dispute  her  right : 
And  injured,  makes  forgiveness  her  delight. 

Such  was  the  portrait  an  apostle  drew,* 
The  bright  original  was  one  he  knew  ; 
Heaven  held  his  hand,  the  likeness  must  be  true. 

When  one  that  holds  communion  with  the  skies 
Has  fill'd  his  urn  where  these  pure  waters  rise, 
And  once  more  mingles  with  us  meaner  things, 
'Tis  even  as  if  an  angel  shook  his  wings  ; 
Immortal  fragrance  fills  the  circuit  wide, 
That  tells  us  whence  his  treasures  are  supplied. 
So  when  a  ship,  well  freighted  with  the  stores 
The  sun  matures  on  India's  spicy  shores, 
Has  dropp'd  her  anchor  and  her  canvas  furl'd, 
In  some  safe  haven  of  our  western  world, 
'Twere  vain  Inquiry  to  what  port  she  went, 
The  gale  informs  us,  laden  with  the  scent. 

*  1  Cor.  xiii. 


CHARITY.  195 


Some  seek,  when  queasy  conscience  has  its  qualms, 
To  lull  the  painful  malady  with  alms  j 
But  Charity  not  feign'd  intends  alone 
Another's  good — theirs  centres  in  their  own  ; 
And  too  short-lived  to  reach  the  realms  of  peaoe, 
Must  cease  forever  when  the  poor  shall  cease. 
Flavia,  most  tender  of  her  own  good  name, 
Is  rather  careless  of  her  sister's  fame  : 
Her  superfluity  the  poor  supplies, 
But  if  she  touch  a  character,  it  dies. 
The  seeming  virtue  weigh'd  against  the  vice, 
She  deems  all  safe,  for  she  has  paid  the  price  : 
No  Charity  but  alms  aught  values  she, 
Except  in  porcelain  on  her  mantle-tree. 
How  many  deeds  with  which  the  world  has  rung, 
From  pride  in  league  with  ignorance  have  sprung  I 
But  God  o'errules  all  human  follies  still, 
And  bends  the  tough  materials  to  His  will. 
A  conflagration,  or  a  wintry  flood, 
Has  left  some  hundreds  without  home  or  food  : 
Extravagance  and  Avarice  shall  subscribe, 
While  fame  and  self-complacence  are  the  bribe. 
The  brief  proclaim'd,  it  visits  every  pew, 
But  first  the  squire's,  a  compliment  but  due  : 
With  slow  deliberation  he  unties 
His  glittering  purse,  that  envy  of  all  eyes, 
And  while  the  clerk  just  puzzles  out  the  psalm, 
Slides  guinea  behind  guinea  in  his  palm  ; 
Till  finding,  what  he  might  have  found  before, 
A  smaller  piece  amidst  the  precious  store, 
Pinch 'd  close  between  his  finger  and  his  thumb, 
He  half  exhibits,  and  then  drops  the  sum. 
Gold  to  be  sure  ! — Throughout  the  town  'tis  told 
How  the  good  squire  gives  never  less  than  gold. 
From  motives  such  as  his,  though  not  the  best, 
Springs  in  due  time  supply  for  the  distress'd  ; 
Not  less  effectual  than  what  love  bestows, 
Except  that  Office  clips  as  it  goes. 

But  lest  I  seem  to  sin  against  a  friend, 
And  wound  the  grace  I  mean  to  recommend, 
(Though  vice  derided  with  a  just  design 
Implies  no  trespass  against  love  divine), 
Once  more  I  would  adopt  the  graver  style  ; 
A  teacher  should  be  sparing  of  his  smile. 

Unless  a  love  of  virtue  light  the  flame, 
Satire  is,  more  than  those  he  brands,  to  blame  ; 


196  CHARITY. 


He  hides  behind  a  magisterial  air 
His  own  offences,  and  strips  others  bare  ; 
Affects  indeed  a  most  humane  concern, 
That  men,  if  gently  tutor'd,  will  not  learn  ; 
That  mulish  folly,  not  to  be  reclaim' d 
By  softer  methods,  must  be  made  ashamed  ; 
But  (I  might  instance  in  St.  Patrick's  dean)* 
Too  often  rails  to  gratify  his  spleen. 
Most  satirists  are  indeed  a  public  scourge  ; 
Their  mildest  physic  is  a  farrier's  purge  ; 
Their  acrid  temper  turns,  as  soon  as  stirr'd, 
The  milk  of  their  good  purpose  all  to  curd. 
Their  zeal  begotten,  as  their  works  rehearse, 
By  lean  despair  upon  an  empty  purse, 
The  wild  assassins  start  into  the  street, 
Prepared  to  poniard  whomsoe'er  they  meet. 
No  skill  in  swordmanship,  however  just, 
Can  be  secure  against  a  madman's  thrust ; 
And  even  virtue,  so  unfairly  match' d, 
Although  immortal,  may  be  prick'd  or  scratch'd. 
When  scandal  has  new  minted  an  old  lie, 
Or  tax'd  invention  for  a  fresh  supply, 
'Tis  call'd  a  satire,  and  the  world  appears 
Gathering  around  it  with  erected  ears  : 
A  thousand  names  are  toss'd  into  the  crowd, 
Some  whisper 'd  softly,  and  some  twang'd  aloud, 
Just  as  the  sapience  of  an  author's  brain 
Suggests  it  safe  or  dangerous  to  be  plain, 
Strange  !  how  the  frequent  interjected  dash 
Quickens  a  market,  and  helps  off  the  trash ; 
The  important  letters  that  include  the  rest 
Serve  as  a  key  to  those  that  are  suppress' d  \ 
Conjecture  gripes  the  victims  in  his  paw, 
The  world  is  charm'd,  and  Scrib  escapes  the  law. 
So  when  the  cold  damp  shades  of  night  prevail, 
Worms  may  be  caught  by  either  head  or  tail ; 
Forcibly  drawn  from  many  a  close  recess, 
They  meet  with  little  pity,  no  redress  ; 
Plunged  in  the  stream  they  lodge  upon  the  mud, 
Food  for  the  famish' d  rovers  of  the  flood. 
All  zeal  for  a  reform  that  gives  offence 
To  peace  and  charity  is  mere  pretence  : 
A  bold  remark,  but  which,  if  well  applied, 
Would  humble  many  a  towering  poet's  pride, 

*  Dean  Swift. 


CHARITY.  197 


Perhaps  the  man  was  in  a  sportive  fit, 

And  had  no  other  play-place  for  his  wit ; 

Perhaps,  enchanted  with  the  love  of  fame, 

He  sought  the  jewel  in  his  neighbor's  shame ; 

Perhaps — whatever  end  he  might  pursue, 

The  cause  of  virtue  could  not  be  his  view. 

At  every  stroke  wit  flashes  in  our  eyes  ; 

The  turns  are  quick,  the  pc  jsh'd  points  surprise, 

But  shine  with  cruel  and  tremendous  charms, 

That,  while  they  please,  possess  us  with  alarms ; 

So  have  I  seen,  (and  hasten 'd  to  the  sight 

On  all  the  wings  of  holiday  delight,) 

Where  stands  that  monument  of  ancient  power, 

Named  with  emphatic  dignity,  the  Tower, 

Guns,  halberds,  swords  and  pistols,  irreat  and  small, 

In  starry  forms  disposed  upon  the  wall  : 

We  wonder,  as  we  gazing  stand  below. 

That  brass  and  steel  should  make  so  fine  a  show ; 

But  though  we  praise  the  exact  designer's  skill, 

Account  them  implements  of  mischief  still. 

No  works  shall  find  acept;m<-<>  in  that  day 
When  all  disguises  shall  be  rent  away. 
That  square  not  truly  with  the  Scripture  plan, 
Nor  spring  from  love  to  God,  or  love  to  man. 
As  He  ordains  things  sordid  in  their  birth, 
To  be  resolved  into  their  parent  earth, 
And  though  the  soul  shall  seek  superior  orbs, 
Whate'er  this  world  produces  it  absorbs  ; 
So  self  starts  nothing  but  what  tends  apace 
Home  to  the  goal,  where  it  began  the  race. 
Such  as  our  motive  is  our  aim  must  be, 
If  this  be  servile,  that  can  ne'er  be  free  : 
If  self  employ  us,  whatsoe'er  is  wrought, 
We  glorify  that  self,  not  Him  we  ought ; 
Such  virtues  had  need  prove  their  own  reward, 
The  Judge  of  all  men  owes  them  no  regard. 
True  charity,  a  plant  divinely  nursed, 
Fed  by  the  love  from  which  it  rose  at  first, 
Thrives  against  hope,  and  in  the  rudest  scene, 
Storms  but  enliven  its  unfading  green  j 
Exuberant  is  the  shadow  it  supplies, 
Its  fruit  on  earth,  its  growth  above  the  skies. 
To  look  on  Him  who  form'd  us,  and  redeem'd, 
So  glorious  now,  though  once  so  disesteem'd  ; 
To  see  a  God  stretch  forth  His  human  hand, 
To  uphold  the  boundless  scenes  of  His  command  ; 


198  CHARITY. 


To  recollect  that  in  a  form  like  ours 

He  bruised  beneath  His  feet  the  infernal  powers, 

Captivity  led  captive,  rose  to  claim 

The  wreath  He  won  so  dearly  in  our  name  ; 

That  throned  above  all  height  He  condescends 

To  call  the  few  that  trust  in  Him  His  friends ; 

That  in  the  heaven  of  heavens,  that  space  He  deems 

Too  scanty  for  the  exertion  of  His  beams, 

And  shines,  as  if  impatient  to  bestow 

Life  and  a  kingdom  upon  worms  below  ; 

That  sight  imparts  a  never-dying  flame, 

Though  feeble  in  degree,  in  kind  the  same. 

Like  him  the  soul,  thus  kindled  from  above, 

Spreads  wide  her  arms  of  universal  love, 

And  still  enlarged  as  she  receives  the  grace, 

Includes  creation  in  her  close  embrace. 

Behold  a  Christian  ! — and  without  the  fires, 

The  founder  of  that  name  alone  inspires, 

Though  all  accomplishment,  all  knowledge  meet, 

To  make  the  shining  prodigy  complete, 

Whoever  boasts  that  name — behold  a  cheat ! 

Were  love,  in  these  the  world's  last  doting  years, 

As  frequent  as  the  want  of  it  appears, 

The  churches  warm'd,  they  would  no  longer  hold 

Such  frozen  figures,  stiff  as  they  are  cold  ; 

Relenting  forms  would  lose  their  power,  or  cease, 

And  even  the  dipp'd  and  sprinkled  live  in  peace : 

Each  heart  would  quit  its  prison  in  the  breast, 

And  flow  in  free  communion  with  the  rest. 

The  statesman  skill'd  in  projects  dark  and  deep, 

Might  burn  his  useless  Machiavel,*  and  sleep ; 

His  budget  often  fill'd,  yet  always  poor, 

Might  swing  at  ease  behind  his  study  door, 

No  longer  prey  upon  our  annual  rents, 

Or  scare  the  nation  with  its  big  contents  : 

Disbanded  legions  freely  might  depart, 

And  slaying  man  would  cease  to  be  an  art. 

No  learned  disputants  would  take  the  field, 

Sure  not  to  conquer,  and  sure  not  to  yield  : 

Both  sides  deceived,  if  rightly  understood, 

Pelting  each  other  for  the  public  good. 

Did  Charity  prevail,  the  press  would  prove 

A  vehicle  of  virtue,  truth,  and  love  j 

*  An  Italian  writer,  who  published  a  work  called  "The  Prince;"  he  inculcated 
in  it  great  deceit  and  subtlety— hence  the  word  "  Machiavellian." 


CHARITY.  199 


And  I  might  spare  myself  the  pains  to  show 
What  few  can  learn,  and  all  suppose  they  know. 

Thus  have  I  sought  to  grace  a  serious  lay 
With  many  a  wild,  indeed,  but  flowery  spray, 
In  hopes  to  gain,  what  else  I  must  have  lost, 
The  attention  pleasure  has  so  much  engross'd. 
But  if,  unhappily  deceived,  I  dream, 
And  prove  too  weak  for  so  divine  a  theme, 
Let  Charity  forgive  me  a  mistake 
That  zeal,  not  vanity,  has  chanced  to  make, 
And  spare  the  poet  for  his  subject's  sake. 


200  CONVERSA  TIOAT. 


CONVERSATION* 


ARGUMENT. 

(n  conversation  much  depends  on  culture— Indecent  language  ana  oaths  reprobated— 
The  author's  dislike  of  the  clash  of  arguments— The  noisy  wrangler— The  positive 
pronounce  without  hesitation— The  point  of  honor  condemned — Duelling  with  lists 
instead  of  weapons  proposed — Effect  of  long  tales— The  retailers  of  prodigies  and 
lies— Qualities  of  a  judicious  tale — Smoking  condemned— The  emphatic  speaker— 
The  perfumed  heau— The  grave  coxcomb — Sickness  made  a  topic  of  conversation- 
Picture  of  a  fretful  temper— The  bashful  speaker— An  English  company— The 
Sportsman— Influence  of  fashion  on  conversation— Converse  of  the  two  disciples 
going  to  Emmaus — Delights  of  religious  conversation — Age  mellows  the  speech — 
True  piety  often  branded  as  fanatic  frenzy — Pleasure  of  communion  with  the  good 
— Conversation  should  be  unconstrained — Persons  who  make  the  Bible  their  com- 
panion charged  with  hypocrisy  by  the  world — The  charge  repelled — The  poet  sar- 
castically surmises  that  his  censure  of  the  world  may  proceed  from  ignorance  of 
its  reformed  manners — An  apology  for  digression — Religion  purities  and  enriches 
conversation. 

Nam  neque  me  tantum  venientis  sibilus  austri, 
Nee  percussa  juvant  fluctu  tarn  litora,  nee  quae 
Saxosas  inter  decurrunt  flumina  valles. 

VIBG.,  Eel.  v. 

* 

THOUGH  Nature  weigh  our  talents,  and  dispense 

To  every  man  his  modicum  of  sense, 

And  Conversation  in  its  better  part 

May  be  esteem' d  a  gift,  and  not  an  art, 

Yet  much  depends,  as  in  the  tiller's  toil, 

On  culture,  and  the  sowing  of  the  soil. 

Words  learn'd  by  rote,  a  parrot  may  rehearse, 

But  talking  is  not  always  to  converse  ; 

Not  more  distinct  from  harmony  divine 

The  constant  creaking  of  a  country  sign. 

As  alphabets  in  ivory  employ 

Hour  after  hour  the  yet  unletter'd  boy, 

Sorting  and  puzzling  with  a  deal  of  glee 

Those  seeds  of  science  call'd  his  ABC; 

So  language  in  the  mouths  of  the  adult, 

(Witness  its  insignificant  result,) 

Too  often  proves  an  implement  of  play, 

A  toy  to  sport  with  and  pass  time  away. 

*  "  My  design,"  says  Cowper,  referring  to  this  poem,  "  is  to  convince  the  world  that 
they  make  but  an  indifferent  use  of  their  tongues,  considering  the  intention  of  Provi- 
dence when  he  endued  them  with  the  faculty  of  speech." 


CONVERSA  TIOAT.  2O I 

Collect  at  evening  what  the  day  brought  forth, 
Compress  the  sum  into  its  solid  worth, 
And  if  it  weigh  the  importance  of  a  fly, 
The  scales  are  false,  or  algebra  a  lie. 
Sacred  interpreter  of  human  thought, 
How  few  respect  or  use  thee  as  they  ought  I 
But  all  shall  give  account  of  every  wrong, 
Who  dare  dishonor  or  defile  the  tongue, 
Who  prostitute  it  in  the  cause  of  vice, 
Or  sell  their  glory  at  a  market-price ; 
Who  vote  for  hire,  or  point  it  with  lampoon, 
The  dear-bought  placeman,  and  the  cheap  buffoon. 
There  is  a  prurience  in  the  speech  of  some, 
Wrath  stays  him,  or  else  God  would  strike  them  dumb : 
His  wise  forbearance  has  their  end  in  view, 
They  fill  their  measure  and  receive  their  due. 
The  heathen  lawgivers  of  ancient  days, 
Names  almost  worthy  of  a  Christian's  praise, 
Would  drive  them  forth  from  the  resort  of  men, 
And  shut  up  every  satyr  in  his  den. 
Oh  come  not  ye  near  innocence  and  truth, 
Ye  worms  that  eat  into  the  bud  of  youth ! 
Infectious  as  impure,  your  blighting  power 
Taints  in  its  rudiments  the  promised  flower, 
Its  odor  perish'd  and  its  charming  hue, 
Thenceforth  'tis  hateful,  for  it  smells  of  you. 
Not  even  the  vigorous  and  headlong  rage 
Of  adolescence  or  a  firmer  age, 
Affords  a  plea  allowable  or  just 
For  making  speech  the  pamperer  of  lust ; 
But  when  the  breath  of  age  commits  the  fault, 
'Tis  nauseous  as  the  vapor  of  a  vault. 
So  wither' d  stumps  disgrace  the  sylvan  scene, 
No  longer  fruitful  and  no  longer  green  ; 
The  sapless  wood,  divested  of  the  bark, 
Grows  fungous,  and  takes  fire  at  every  spark. 
Oaths  terminate,  as  Paul  observes,  all  strife, 
Some  men  have  surely  then  a  peaceful  life ! 
Whatever  subject  occupy  discourse, 
The  feats  of  Vestris,*  or  the  naval  force, 
Asseveration  blustering  in  your  face 
Makes  contradiction  such  a  hopeless  case : 
In  every  tale  they  tell,  or  false  or  true, 

•  Vestris  was  a  famous  dancer.  The  Vestrises  continued  on  the  stage  as  ballet 
dancers  or  singers  for  much  more  than  a  century.  The  one  here  alluded  to  was  tin 
•econd  famous  dancer  of  that  name.  The  first  was  called  "  Le  Dieu  de  la  Dange." 


202  CONVERSATION. 


Well  known,  or  such  as  no  man  ever  knew, 
They  fix  attention,  heedless  of  your  pain, 
With  oaths  like  rivets  forced  into  the  brain  ; 
And  even  when  sober  truth  prevails  throughout, 
They  swear  it,  till  affirmance  breeds  a  doubt. 
A  Persian,  humble  servant  of  the  sun, 
Who,  though  devout,  yet  bigotry  had  none, 
Hearing  a  lawyer,  grave  in  his  address, 
With  adjurations  every  word  impress, 
Supposed  the  man  a  bishop,  or  at  least, 
God's  name  so  much  upon  his  lips,  a  priest ; 
Bow'd  at  the  close  with  all  his  graceful  airs, 
And  begg'd  an  interest  in  his  frequent  prayers. 

Go,  quit  the  rank  to  which  ye  stood  preferr'd, 
Henceforth  associate  in  one  common  herd  ; 
Religion,  virtue,  reason,  common  sense, 
Pronounce  your  human  form  a  false  pretence, — 
A  mere  disguise  in  which  a  devil  lurks, 
Who  yet  betrays  his  secret  by  his  works. 

Ye  powers  who  rule  the  tongue,  if  such  there  are, 
And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care, 
Preserve  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate, — 
A  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate. 
The  clash  of  arguments  and  jar  of  words, 
Worse  than  the  mortal  brunt  of  rival  swords, 
Decide  no  question  with  their  tedious  length, 
For  opposition  gives  opinion  strength, 
Divert  the  champions  prodigal  of  breath, 
And  put  the  peaceably  disposed  to  death. 
Oh  thwart  me  not,  Sir  Soph,  at  every  turn, 
Nor  carp  at  every  flaw  you  may  discern  ; 
Though  syllogisms  hang  not  on  my  tongue, 
I  ain  not  surely  always  in  the  wrong ; 
'Tis  hard  if  all  is  false  that  I  advance, 
A  fool  must  now  and  then  be  right  by  chance. 
Not  that  all  freedom  of  dissent  I  blame  ; 
No — there  I  grant  the  privilege  I  claim. 
A  disputable  point  is  no  man's  ground ; 
Rove  where  you  please,  'tis  common  all  around. 
Discourse  may  want  an  animated — No, 
To  brush  the  surface  and  to  make  it  flow ; 
But  still  remember,  if  you  mean  to  please, 
To  press  your  point  with  modesty  and  ease. 
The  mark  at  which  my  juster  aim  I  take, 
Is  contradiction  for  its  own  dear  sake ; 
Set  your  opinion  at  whatever  pitch, 


CON  VERSA  TION.  203 


Knots  and  impediments  make  something  hitch  : 

Adopt  his  own,  'tis  equally  in  vain, 

Your  thread  of  argument  is  snapp'd  again  ; 

The  wrangler,  rather  than  accord  with  you, 

Will  judge  himself  deceived, — and  prove  it  too. 

Vociferated  logic  kills  me  quite, — 

A  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right ; 

I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair, 

Fix  on  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare, 

And  when  I  hope  his  blunders  are  all  out, 

Reply  discreetly — <;  To  be  sure,  no  doubt  1 ' 

Dubius  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man — 
Yes,  you  may  catch  him  tripping — if  you  can. 
He  would  not  with  a  peremptory  tone 
Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his  own  ; 
With  hesitation  admirably  slow, 
He  humbly  hopes — presumes — it  may  be  so. 
His  evidence,  if  he  were  call'd  by  law 
To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw, 
For  want  of  prominence  and  just  relief, 
Would  hang  an  honest  man  and  save  a  thief. 
Through  constant  dread  of  giving  truth  offence, 
He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense ; 
Knows  what  he  knows  as  if  he  knew  it  not ; 
What  he  remembers  seems  to  have  forgot ; 
His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall, 
Centreing  at  last  in  having  none  at  all. 
Yet  though  he  tease  and  balk  your  listening  ear, 
He  makes  one  useful  point  exceeding  clear \ 
Howe'er  ingenious  on  his  darling  theme 
A  skeptic  in  philosophy  may  seem, 
Reduced  to  practice,  his  beloved  rule  . 
Would  only  prove  him  a  consummate  fool. 
Useless  in  him  alike  both  brain  and  speech, 
Fate  having  placed  all  truth  above  his  reach  ; 
His  ambiguities  his  total  sum, 
He  might  as  well  be  blind,  and  deaf,  and  dumb. 

Where  men  of  judgment  creep  and  feel  their  way, 
The  positive  pronounce  without  dismay. 
Their  want  of  light  and  intellect  supplied 
By  sparks  absurdity  strikes  out  of  pride  ; 
Without  the  means  of  knowing  right  from  wrong, 
They  always  are  decisive,  clear,  and  strong  ; 
Where  others  toil  with  philosophic  force, 
Their  nimble  nonsense  takes  a  shorter  course, 
Flings  at  your  head  conviction  in  the  lump, 


204  CONVERSATION. 


And  gains  remote  conclusions  at  a  jump  ; 
Their  own  defect,  invisible  to  them, 
Seen  in  another  they  at  once  condemn  ; 
And  though  self-idolized  in  every  case, 
Hate  their  own  likeness  in  a  brother's  face  : 
The  cause  is  plain,  and  not  to  be  denied, 
The  proud  are  always  most  provoked  by  pride  ; 
Few  competitions  but  engender  spite, 
And  those  the  most  where  neither  has  a  right. 
The  Point  of  Honor  has  been  deeni'd  of  use, 
To  teach  good  manners  and  to  curb  abuse  : 
Admit  it  true,  the  consequence  is  clear, 
Our  polish'd  manners  are  a  mask  we  wear, 
And  at  the  bottom  barbarous  still  and  rude, 
We  are  restrain'd  indeed,  but  not  subdued. 
The  very  remedy,  however  sure, 
Springs  from  the  mischief  it  intends  to  cure, 
And  savage  in  its  principle  appears, 
Tried,  as  it  should  be,  by  the  fruit  it  bears. 
'Tis  hard,  indeed,  if  nothing  will  defend 
Mankind  from  quarrels  but  their  fatal  end  ; 
That  now  and  then  a  hero  must  decease, 
That  the  surviving  world  may  live  in  peace, 
Perhaps  at  last  close  scrutiny  may  show 
The  practice  dastardly,  and  mean,  and  low ; 
That  men  engage  in  it  compel!' d  by  force, 
Arid  fear,  not  courage,  is  its  proper  source, 
The  fear  of  tyrant  custom,  and  the  fear 
Lest  fops  should  censure  us,  and  fools  should  sneer. 
At  least  to  trample  on  our  Maker's  laws, 
And  hazard  life  for  any  or  no  cause, 
To  rush  into  a  fix'd  eternal  state 
Out  of  the  very  flames  of  rage  and  hate, 
Or  send  another  shivering  to  the  bar 
With  all  the  guilt  of  such  unnatural  war, 
Whatever  use  may  urge  or  honor  plead, 
On  reason's  verdict  is  a  madman's  deed. 
Am  I  to  set  my  life  upon  a  throw 
Because  a  bear  is  rude  and  surly  ?    No — 
A  moral,  sensible,  and  well-bred  man 
Will  not  affront  me,  and  no  other  can. 
Were  I  empower'd  to  regulate  the  lists, 
They  should  encounter  with  well-loaded  fists  : 
A  Trojan  combat  would  be  something  new, 
Let  Dares  beat  Entellus  *  black  and  blue, 


*  Dares  was  a  Trojan  and  Entellus  a  Sicilian,  both  famous  athletae,  whose  content  ia 
described  in  the  ^Eneid,  B.  v.  362-472. 


CONVERSATION.  205 


Then  each  might  shew,  to  his  admiring  friends, 
In  honorable  bumps  his  rich  amends, 
And  carry  in  contusions  of  his  skull, 
A  satisfactory  receipt  in  full. 

A  story  in  which  native  humor  reigns 
Is  often  useful,  always  entertains  ; 
A  graver  fact,  enlisted  on  your  side, 
May  furnish  illustration,  well  applied  ; 
But  sedentary  weavers  of  long  tales 
Give  me  the  fidgets,  and  my  patience  fails. 
'Tis  the  most  asinine  employ  on  earth, 
To  hear  them  tell  of  parentage  and  birth, 
And  echo  conversations,  dull  arid  dry, 
Embellish'd  with — He  said, — and,  So  said  I. 
At  every  interview  their  route  the  same, 
The  repetition  makes  attention  lame  : 
We  bustle  up  with  unsuccessful  speed, 
And  in  the  saddest  part  cry — "  Droll  indeed  ! ' 
The  path  of  narrative  with  care  pursue, 
Still  making  probability  your  clue  ; 
On  all  the  vestiges  of  truth  attend, 
And  let  them  guide  you  to  a  decent  end. 
Of  all  ambitions  man  may  entertain, 
The  worst  that  can  invade  a  sickly  brain 
Is  that  which  angles  hourly  for  surprise, 
And  baits  its  hook  with  prodigies  and  lies. 
Credulous  infancy,  or  age  as  weak, 
Are  fittest  auditors  for  such  to  seek, 
Who  to  please  others  will  themselves  disgrace 
Yet  please  not,  but  affront  you  to  your  face. 
A  great  retailer  of  this  curious  ware, 
Having  unloaded,  and  made  many  stare, 
"  Can  this  be  true  ?  '    an  arch  observer  cries  ; 
"  Yes,"  (rather  moved,)  "  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes." 
"  Sir !  I  believe  it  on  that  ground  alone  ; 
I  could  not,  had  I  seen  it  with  my  own." 

A  tale  should  be  judicious,  clear,  succinct ; 
The  language  plain,  and  incidents  well  link'd. 
Tell  not  as  new  what  everybody  knows, 
And,  new  or  old,  still  hasten  to  a  close ; 
There  centreing  in  a  focus,  round  and  neat, 
Let  all  your  rays  of  information  meet. 
What  neither  yields  us  profit  nor  delight, 
Is  like  a  nurse's  lullaby  at  night : 
Guy  Earl  of  Warwick  and  fair  Eleanore, 
Or  giant-killing  Jack  would  please  me  mor«. 


2  o6  CON  VERSA  TICK. 


The  pipe,  with  solemn  interposing  puff, 
Makes  half  a  sentence  at  a  time  enough  ; 
The  dozing  sages  drop  the  drowsy  strain, 
Then  pause,  and  puff — and  speak,  and  pause  again, 
Such  often,  like  the  tube  they  so  admire, 
Important  triflers  !  have  more  smoke  than  fire. 
Pernicious  weed  !  whose  scent  the  fair  annoys, 
Unfriendly  to  society's  chief  joys, 
Thy  worst  effect  is  banishing  for  hours 
The  sex  whose  presence  civilizes  ours  ; 
Thou  art  indeed  the  drug  a  gardener  wants 
To  poison  vermin  that  infests  his  plants  ; 
But  are  we  so  to  wit  and  beauty  blind 
As  to  despise  the  glory  of  our  kind, 
And  shew  the  softest  minds  and  fairest  forms 
As  little  mercy  as  the  grubs  and  worms  ? 
They  dare  not  wait  the  riotous  abuse 
Thy  thirst-creating  steams  at  length  produce, 
When  wine  has  given  indecent  language  birth, 
And  forced  the  flood-gates  of  licentious  mirth  ; 
For  sea-born  Venus  her  attachment  shows 
Still  to  that  element  from  which  she  rose, 
And  with  a  quiet  which  no  fumes  disturb, 
Sips  meek  infusions  of  a  milder  herb. 

The  emphatic  speaker  dearly  loves  to  oppose, 
In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  nose, 
As  if  the  gnomon  on  his  neighbor's  phiz, 
Touch' d  with  the  magnet,  had  attracted  his. 
His  whisper' d  theme,  dilated  and  at  large, 
Proves  after  all  a  wind-gun's  airy  charge, — 
An  extract  of  his  diary, — no  more, — 
A  tasteless  journal  of  the  day  before. 
He  walk'd  abroad,  o'ertaken  in  the  rain, 
Call'd  on  a  friend,  drank  tea,  stepp'd  home  again 
Resumed  his  purpose,  had  a  world  of  talk 
With  one  he  stumbled  on,  and  lost  his  walk. 
I  interrupt  him  with  a  sudden  bow, 
"  Adieu,  dear  Sir  !  lest  you  should  lose  it  now." 

I  cannot  talk  with  civet  in  the  room, 
A  fine  puss  gentleman  that's  all  perfume  ; 
The  sight's  enough — no  need  to  smell  a  beau — 
Who  thrusts  his  nose  into  a  raree-show  ? 
His  odoriferous  attempts  to  please 
Perhaps  might  prosper  with  a  swarm  of  bees ; 
But  we  that  make  no  honey  though  we  sting, 
Poets,  are  sometimes  apt  to  maul  the  thing. 


CON  VERSA  TION.  2  07 


'Tis  wrong  to  bring  into  a  mix'd  resort, 

What  makes  some  sick,  and  others  a  la  mort, 

An  argument  of  cogence,  we  may  say, 

Why  such  a  one  should  keep  himself  away. 

A  graver  coxcomb  we  may  sometimes  see 

Quite  as  absurd,  though  not  so  light  as  he : 

A  shallow  brain  behind  a  serious  mask, 

An  oracle  within  an  empty  cask, 

The  solemn  fop ;  significant  and  budge  ; 

A  fool  with  judges,  amongst  fools  a  judge, 

He  says  but  little,  and  that  little  said 

Owes  all  its  weight,  like  load--  1  dice,  to  lead. 

His  wit  invites  you  by  his  looks  to  come, 

But  when  you  knock  it  never  is  at  home: 

'Tis  like  a  parcel  sent  you  by  the  stage, 

Some  handsome  present,  as  your  hopes  presage, 

'Tis  heavy,  bulky,  and  bids  fair  to  prove 

An  absent  friend's  fidelity  and  love  ; 

But  when  unpack'd  your  disappointment  groans 

To  find  it  stuff'd  with  brickbats,  earth,  and  stones. 

Some  men  employ  their  health,  an  ugly  trick, 
In  making  known  how  oft  they  have  been  sick, 
And  give  us,  in  recitals  of  disease, 
A  doctor's  trouble,  but  without  the  fee-  : 
Relate  how  many  weeks  they  kept  their  bed, 
How  an  emetic  or  cathartic  sped  ; 
Nothing  is  slightly  touch'd,  much  less  forgot, 
Nose,  ears,  and  eyes  seem  present  on  the  spot. 
Now  the  distemper,  spite  of  draught  or  pill, 
Victorious  seem'd,  and  now  the  doctor's  skill ; 
And  now — alas,  for  unforeseen  mishaps! 
They  put  on  a  damp  nightcap  and  relapse  ; 
They  thought  they  must  have  died,  they  were  so  bad  j 
Their  peevish  hearers  almost  wish  they  had. 

Some  fretful  tempers  wince  at  every  touch, 
You  always  do  too  little  or  too  much  : 
You  speak  with  life  in  hopes  to  entertain, 
Your  elevated  voice  goes  through  the  brain  ; 
You  fall  at  once  into  a  lower  key, 
That's  worse — the  drone-pipe  of  an  humble  bee. 
The  southern  sash  admits  too  strong  a  flight, 
You  rise  and  drop  the  curtain — now  'tis  night. 
He  shakes  with  cold — you  stir  the  fire  and  strive 
To  make  a  blaze — that's  roasting  him  alive. 
Serve  him  with  venison,  and  he  chooses  fish 
With  sole — that's  just  the  sort  he  would  not  wish. 


208  CONFERS  A  TION. 

— — ^— — — -  _    — LC 

He  takes  what  he  at  first  prof  ess' d  to  loathe, 
And  in  due  time  feeds  heartily  on  both  ; 
Yet  still  o'erclouded  with  a  constant  frown, 
He  does  not  swallow,  but  he  gulps  it  down. 
Your  hope  to  please  him  vain  on  every  plan, 
Himself  should  work  that  wonder,  if  he  can — 
Alas  !  his  efforts  double  his  distress, 
He  likes  yours  little,  and  his  own  still  less. 
Thus  always  teasing  others,  always  teased, 
His  only  pleasure  is — to  be  displeased. 

I  pity  bashful  men,  who  feel  the  pain 
Of  fancied  scorn  and  undeserved  disdain, 
And  bear  the  marks  upon  a  blushing  face 
Of  needless  shame,  and  self-imposed  disgrace. 
Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute, 
The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 
We  sometimes  think  we  could  a  speech  produce 
Much  to  the  purpose  if  our  tongues  were  loose, 
But,  being  tried,  it  dies  upon  the  lip, 
Faint  as  a  chicken's  note  that  has  the  pip  : 
Our  wasted  oil  unprofltably  burns, 
Like  hidden  lamps  in  old  sepulchral  urns.* 
Few  Frenchmen  of  this  evil  have  complairi'd; 
It  seems  as  if  we  Britons  were  ordain'd, 
By  way  of  wholesome  curb  upon  our  pride, 
To  fear  each  other,  fearing  none  beside. 
The  cause  perhaps  inquiry  may  descry, 
Self-searching  with  an  introverted  eye, 
QonceaPd  within  an  unsuspected  part, 
The  vainest  corner  of  our  own  vain  heart : 
Forever  aiming  at  the  world's  esteem, 
Our  self-importance  ruins  its  own  scheme  ; 
In  other  eyes  our  talents  rarely  shown, 
Become  at  length  so  splendid  in  our  own, 
We  dare  not  risk  them  into  public  view, 
Lest  they  miscarry  of  what  Seems  their  due. 
True  modesty  is  a  discerning  grace, 
And  only  blushes  in  the  proper  place  ; 
But  counterfeit  is  blind,  and  skulks  through  fearg 
Where  'tis  a  shame  to  be  ashamed  to  appear : 
Humility  the  parent  of  the  first, 
The  last  by  Vanity  produced  and  nursed. 
The  circle  form'd,  we  sit  in  silent  state, 
Like  figures  drawn  upon  a  dial-plate  ; 

*  It  was  once  supposed  that  the  ancients  had  the  secret  of  keeping  sepulchral  lamp* 
Constantly  burning. 


CONVERSA  TION.  2  09 


Yes,  ma'am,  and  No,  ma'am,  utter'd  softly,  show 
Every  five  minutes,  how  the  minutes  go  ; 
Each  individual,  suffering  a  constraint 
Poetry  may,  but  colors  cannot,  paint, 
As  if  in  close  committee  on  the  sky, 
Reports  it  hot  or  cold,  or  wet  or  dry, 
And  finds  a  changing  clime  a  happy  source 
Of  wise  reflection  and  well-timed  discourse. 
We  next  inquire,  but  softly  and  by  stealth, 
Like  conservators  of  the  public  health, 
Of  epidemic  throats,  if  such  there  are, 
Of  coughs  and  rheums,  and  phthisic  and  catarrh. 
That  theme  exhausted,  a  wide  chasm  ensues, 
Fill'd  up  at  last  with  interesting  news, 
Who  danced  with  whom,  and  who  are  like  to  wed, 
And  who  is  hang'd,  and  who  is  brought  to  bed : 
But  fear  to  call  a  more  important  cause, 
As  if  'twere  treason  against  English  laws. 
The  visit  paid,  with  ecstacy  we  come, 
As  from  a  seven  years'  transportation,  home, 
And  there  resume  an  unembarrass'd  brow, 
Recovering  what  we  lost  we  know  not  how, 
The  faculties  that  seem'd  reduced  to  naught, 
Expression  and  the  privilege  of  thought. 
The  reeking,  roaring  hero  of  the  chase, 
I  give  him  over  as  a  desperate  case. 
Physicians  write  in  hope  to  work  a  cure, 
Never,  if  honest  ones,  when  death  is  sure ; 
And  though  the  fox  he  follows  may  be  tamed, 
A  mere  fox-follower  never  is  reclaiin'd. 
Some  farrier  should  prescribe  his  proper  course, 
Whose  only  fit  companion  is  his  horse, 
Or  if,  deserving  of  a  better  doom, 
The  noble  beast  judge  otherwise,  his  groom. 
Yet  even  the  rogue  that  serves  him,  though  he  stand 
To  take  his  honor's  orders  cap  in  hand, 
Prefers  his  fellow-grooms,  with  much  good  sense, 
Their  skill  a  truth,  his  master's  a  pretence. 
If  neither  horse  nor  groom  affect  the  squire, 
Where  can  at  last  his  jockeyship  retire  ? 
Oh,  to  the  club,  the  scene  of  savage  joys, 
The  school  of  coarse  good-fellowship  and  noise ; 
There,  in  the  sweet  society  of  those 
Whose  friendship  from  his  boyish  years  he  choser. 
Let  him  improve  his  talent  if  he  can, 
Till  none  but  beasts  acknowledge  him  a  man. 


210  CONFERS  A  TION. 


Man's  heart  had  been  impenetrably  seal'd, 
Like  theirs  that  cleave  the  flood  or  graze  the  field, 
Had  not  his  Maker's  all-bestowing  hand 
Given  him  a  soul,  and  bade  him  understand. 
The  reasoning  power  vouchsafed,  of  course  inferr'd 
The  power  to  clothe  that  reason  with  his  word ; 
For  all  is  perfect  that  God  works  on  earth, 
And  He  that  gives  conception  aids  the  birth. 
If  this  be  plain,  'tis  plainly  understood 
What  uses  of  His  boon  the  Giver  would. 
The  mind  despatch'd  upon  her  busy  toil, 
Should  range  where  Providence  has  bless'd  the  soil  , 
Visiting  every  flower  with  labor  meet, 
And  gathering  all  her  treasures  sweet  by  sweet, 
She  should  imbue  the  tongue  with  what  she  sips, 
And  shed  the  balmy  blessing  on  the  lips, 
That  good  diffused  may  more  abundant  grow, 
And  speech  may  praise  the  power  that  bids  it  flow 
Will  the  sweet  warbler  of  the  livelong  night, 
That  fills  the  listening  lover  with  delight, 
Forget  his  harmony,  with  rapture  heard, 
To  learn  the  twittering  of  a  meaner  bird  ? 
Or  make  the  parrot's  mimicry  his  choice, 
That  odious  libel  on  a  human  voice  ? 
No — Nature,  unsophisticate  by  man, 
Starts  not  aside  from  her  Creator's  plan ; 
The  melody  that  was  at  first  design' d 
To  cheer  the  rude  forefathers  of  mankind, 
Is  note  for  note  deliver'd  in  our  ears, 
In  the  last  scene  of  her  six  thousand  years : 
Yet  Fashion,  leader  of  a  chattering  train, 
Whom  man  for  his  own  hurt  permits  to  reign, 
Who  shifts  and  changes  all  things  but  his  shape, 
And  would  degrade  her  votary  to  an  ape, 
The  fruitful  parent  of  abuse  and  wrong, 
Holds  a  usurp'd  dominion  o'er  his  tongue; 
There  sits  and  prompts  him  with  his  own  disgrace, 
Prescribes  the  theme,  the  tone,  and  the  grimace, 
And,  when  accomplish'd  in  her  wayward  school, 
Calls  gentleman  whom  she  has  made  a  fool. 
'Tis  an  unalterable  fix'd  decree, 
That  none  could  frame  or  ratify  but  she, 
That  heaven  arid  hell,  and  righteousness  and  sin, 
Snares  in  his  path,  and  foes  that  lurk  within, 
God  and  His  attributes,  (a  field  of  day 
Where  'tis  an  angel's  happiness  to  stray,) 


CONVERSATION.  2H 


Fruits  of  His  love,  and  wonders  of  His  might, 

Be  never  named  in  ears  esteem'd  polite  j 

That  he  who  dares,  when  she  forbids,  be  grave, 

Shall  stand  proscribed  a  madman  or  a  knave, 

A  close  designer  not  to  be  believed, 

Or,  if  excused  that  charge,  at  least  deceived. 

Oh  folly  worthy  of  the  nurse's  lap, 

Give  it  the  breast,  or  stop  its  mouth  with  pap  ! 

Is  it  incredible,  or  can  it  seem 

A  dream  to  any  except  those  that  dream, 

That  man  should  love  his  Maker,  and  that  fire, 

Warming  his  heart,  should  at  his  lips  transpire? 

Know  then,  and  modestly  let  fall  your  eyes, 

And  veil  your  daring  crest  that  braves  the  skies, 

That  air  of  insolence  affronts  your  God, 

You  need  His  pardon,  and  provoke  lli>  rod; 

Now,  in  a  posture  that  becomes  you  more 

Than  that  heroic  strut  assumed  before, 

Know,  your  arrears  with  every  hour  accrue 

For  mercy  shewn,  while  wrath  is  justly  due. 

The  time  is  short,  and  there  are  souls  on  earth, 

Though  future  pain  may  serve  for  present  mirth, 

Acquainted  with  the  woes  that  fear  or  shame, 

By  fashion  taught,  forbade  them  once  to  name, 

And  having  felt  the  pangs  you  deem  a  jeM , 

Have  proved  them  truths  too  big  to  be  express'd. 

Go  seek  on  revelation's  hallow'd  ground, 

Sure  to  succeed,  the  remedy  they  found  ; 

Touch'd  by  that  power  that  you  have  dared  to  mock, 

That  makes  seas  stable,  and  dissolves  the  rock, 

Your  heart  shall  yield  a  life-renewing  stream, 

That  fools,  as  you  have  done,  shall  call  a  dream. 

It  happen'd  on  a  solemn  eventide,* 
Soon  after  He  that  was  our  surety  died, 
Two  bosom  friends,  each  pensively  inclined, 
The  scene  of  all  those  sorrows  left  behind, 
Sought  their  own  village,  f  busied  as  they  went 
In  musings  worthy  of  the  great  event : 
They  spake  of  Him  they  loved,  of  Him  whose  life. 
Though  blameless,  had  incurr'd  perpetua]  strife, 
Whose  deeds  had  left,  in  spite  of  hostile  arts, 
A  deep  memorial  graven  on  their  hearts. 
The  recollection,  like  a  vein  of  ore, 
The  farther  traced,  enrich'd  them  still  the  more ; 


•  The  evening  of  the  Resurrection.  St.  Luke,  xxiv.  13  to  33.  t  Emmaum. 


fI2  CONVERSATION. 


They  thought  Him,  and  they  justly  thought  Him,  one 
Sent  to  do  more  than  He  appear 'd  to  hffve  done  ; 
To  exalt  a  people,  and  to  place  them  high 
Above  all  else,  and  wonder' d  He  should  die. 
Ere  yet  they  brought  their  journey  to  an  end, 
A  stranger  join'd  them,  courteous  as  a  friend, 
And  ask'd  them,  with  a  kind  engaging  air, 
What  their  affliction  was,  arid  begg'd  a  share. 
Inform'd,  He  gather'd  up  the  broken  thread, 
And,  truth  and  wisdom  gracing  all  He  said, 
Explain'd,  illustrated   and  search'd  so  well 
The  tender  theme  on  which  they  chose  to  dwell, 
That,  reaching  home,  "  The  night,"  they  said,  "  is 
We  must  not  now  be  parted,  sojourn  here." — 
The  new  acquaintance  soon  became  a  guest, 
And  made  so  welcome  at  their  simple  feast, 
He  bless'd  the  bread,  but  vanish'd  at  the  word, 
And  left  them  both  exclaiming,  ' '  'Twas  the  Lord ! 
Did  not  our  hearts  feel  all  He  deign 'd  to  say, 
Did  they  not  burn  within  us  by  the  way  ?  ' 

Now  theirs  was  converse  such  as  it  behoves 
Man  to  maintain,  and  such  as  Grod  approves : 
Their  views  indeed  were  indistinct  and  dim, 
But  yet  successful,  being  aim'd  at  Him. 
Christ  and  His  character  their  only  scope, 
Their  object,  and  their  subject,  and  their  hope, 
They  felt  what  it  became  them  much  to  feel, 
And,  wanting  Him  to  loose  the  sacred  seal, 
Found  Him  as  prompt,  as  their  desire  was  true, 
To  spread  the  new-born  glories  in  their  view. 
Well — what  are  ages  and  the  lapse  of  time 
Match'd  against  truths  as  lasting  as  sublime  ? 
Can  length  of  years  on  God  himself  exact, 
Or  make  that  fiction  which  was  once  a  fact  ? 
No — marble  and  recording  brass  decay, 
And,  like  the  graver's  memory,  pass  away ; 
The  works  of  man  inherit,  as  is  just, 
Their  author's  frailty,  and  return  to  dust ; 
But  truth  divine  forever  stands  secure, 
Its  hea.d  is  guarded  as  its  base  is  sure ; 
Fix'd  in  the  rolling  flood  of  endless  years 
The  pillar  of  the  eternal  plan  appears, 
The  raving  storm  and  dashing  wave  defies, 
Built  by  that  Architect  who  built  the  skies. 
Hearts  may  be  found  that  harbor  at  this  hour 
That  love  of  Christ  in  all  its  quickening  power  ; 


CONFERS  A  TION.  2 1 3 


And  lips  unstain'd  by  folly  or  by  strife, 
Whose  wisdom,  drawn  from  the  deep  well  of  life 
Tastes  of  its  healthful  origin,  and  flows 
A  Jordan  for  the  ablution  of  our  woes. 
O  days  of  heaven  and  nights  of  equal  praise, 
Serene  and  peaceful  as  those  heavenly  days, 
When  souls  drawn  upwards  in  communion  sweet 
Enjoy  the  stillness  of  some  close  retreat, 
Discourse  as  if  released  and  safe  at  home, 
Of  dangers  past  and  wonders  yet  to  come, 
And  spread  the  sacred  treasures  of  the  breast 
Upon  the  lap  of  covenanted  rest. 

What,  always  dreaming  over  heavenly  things. 
Like  angel  heads  in  stone  with  pigeon-wings? 
Canting  and  whining  out  all  day  the  word, 
And  half  the  night?  fanatic  and  absurd  ! 
Mine  be  the  friend  less  frequent  in  his  prayers. 
Who  makes  no  bustle  with  his  soul's  affairs, 
Whose  wit  can  brighten  up  a  wintry  day, 
And  chase  the  splenetic  dull  hours  away, 
Content  on  earth  in  earthly  things  to  shine, 
Who  waits  for  heaven  ere  he  becomes  divine, 
Leaves  saints  to  enjoy  those  altitudes  they  teach, 
And  plucks  the  fruit  placed  more  within  his  reach. 

Well  spoken,  advocate  of  sin  and  shame, 
Known  by  thy  bleating,  Ignorance  thy  name. 
Is  sparkling  wit  the  world's  exclusive  right  '; 
The  fix'd  fee  simple  of  the  vain  and  right? 
Can  hopes  of  heaven,  bright  prospects  of  an  hour 
That  comes  to  waft  us  out  of  sorrow's  power, 
Obscure  or  quench  a  faculty  that  finds 
Its  happiest  soil  in  the  sereiiest  minds? 
Religion  curbs  indeed  its  wanton  play, 
And  brings  the  trifler  under  rigorous  sway, 
But  gives  it  usefulness  unknown  before, 
And  purifying,  makes  it  shine  the  more. 
A  Christian's  wit  is  inoffensive  light, 
A  beam  that  aids  but  never  grieves  the  sight, 
Vigorous  in  age  as  in  the  flush  of  youth, 
'Tis  always  active  on  the  side  of  truth  ; 
Temperance  and  peace  insure  its  healthful  state 
And  make  it  brightest  at  its  latest  date. 
Oh  I  have  seen  (nor  hope  perhaps  in  vain, 
Ere  life  go  down,  to  see  such  sights  again) 
A  veteran  warrior  in  the  Christian  field, 
Who  never  saw  the  sword  he  could  not  wield  ; 


2X4  CONVERSA  TION. 


Grave  without  dulness,  learned  without  pride, 

Exact,  yet  not  precise,  though  meek,  keen-eyed  ; 

A  man  that  would  have  foil'd  at  their  own  play 

A  dozen  would-bes  of  the  modern  day ; 

Who,  when  occasion  justified  its  use, 

Had  wit  as  bright  as  ready  to  produce, 

Could  fetch  from  records  of  an  earlier  age, 

Or  from  philosophy's  enlighten'd  page, 

His  rich  materials,  and  regale  your  ear 

With  strains  it  was  a  privilege  to  hear ; 

Yet  above  all  his  luxury  supreme, 

And  his  chief  glory  was  the  gospel  theme ; 

There  he  was  copious  as  old  Greece  or  Rome, 

His  happy  eloquence  seem'd  there  at  home, 

Ambitious  not  to  shine  or  to  excel, 

But  to  treat  justly  what  he  loved  so  well. 

It  moves  me  more  perhaps  than  folly  ought, 
When  some  green  heads  as  void  of  wit  as  thought, 
Suppose  themselves  monopolists  of  sense, 
And  wiser  men's  ability  pretence. 
Though  time  will  wear  us,  and  we  must  grow  old, 
Such  men  are  not  forgot  as  soon  as  cold, 
Their  fragrant  memory  will  outlast  their  tomb, 
Embalmed  forever  in  its  own  perfume. 
And  to  say  truth,  though  in  its  ed&ly  prime, 
And  when  unstain'd  with  any  grosser  crime, 
Youth  has  a  sprightliness  and  fire  to  boast, 
That  in  the  valley  of  decline  are  lost, 
And  virtue  with  peculiar  charms  appears, 
Crown'd  with  the  garland  of  life's  blooming  years ; 
Yet  age,  by  long  experience  well  inform'd, 
Well  read,  well  temper'd,  with  religion  warm'd, 
That  fire  abated  which  impels  rash  youth, 
Proud  of  his  speed,  to  overshoot  the  truth, 
As  time  improves  the  grape's  authentic  juice, 
Mellows  and  makes  the  speech  more  fit  for  use, 
And  claims  a  reverence  in  its  shortening  day, 
That  'tis  an  honor  and  a  joy  to  pay. 
The  fruits  of  age,  less  fair,  are  yet  more  sound 
Than  those  a  brighter  season  pours  around, 
And,  like  the  stores  autumnal  suns  mature, 
Through  wintry  rigors  unimpair'd  endure. 

What  is  fanatic  frenzy,  scorn' d  so  much, 
And  dreaded  more  than  a  contagious  touch  ? 
I  grant  it  dangerous,  and  approve  your  fear  ; 
That  fire  is  catching  if  you  draw  too  near ; 


CONVERSA  TION.  215 


But  sage  observers  oft  mistake  the  flame, 

And  give  true  piety  that  odious  name. 

To  tremble  (as  the  creature  of  an  hour 

Ought  at  the  view  of  an  Almighty  power) 

Before  His  presence,  at  whose  awful  throne 

All  tremble  in  all  worlds,  except  our  own  ; 

To  supplicate  His  mercy,  love  His  ways, 

And  prize  them  above  pleasure,  wealth,  or  praise, 

Though  common  sense,  allow' d  a  casting  voice, 

And  free  from  bias,  must  approve  the  choice, 

Convicts  a  man  fanatic  in  the  extreme, 

And  wild  as  madness  in  the  world's  esteem. 

But  that  disease,  when  soberly  denned, 

Is  the  false  fire  of  an  o'erheated  mind  ; 

It  views  the  truth  with  ;i  distorted  eye, 

And  either  warps  or  lays  it  useless  by  ; 

'Tis  narrow,  selfish,  arrogant,  and  draws 

Its  sordid  nourishment  from  man's  applause, 

And,  while  at  heart  sin  unrelinquish'd  lies, 

Presumes  itself  chief  favorite  of  the  skies. 

'Tis  such  a  light  as  putrefaction  breeds 

In  fly-blown  flesh,  whereon  the  maggot  feeds, 

Shines  in  the  dark,  but  usher'd  into  day, 

The  stench  remains,  the  lustre  dies  away. 

True  bliss,  if  man  may  reach  it,  is  composed 
Of  hearts  in  union  mutually  disclosed  ; 
And,  farewell  else  all  hope  of  pure  delight, 
Those  hearts  should  be  reclaim'd,  n-new'd,  upright. 
Bad  men,  profaning  friendship's  hallow'd  name, 
Form,  in  its  stead,  a  covenant  of  shame, 
A  dark  confederacy  against  the  laws 
Of  virtue,  and  religion's  glorious  cause : 
They  build  each  other  up  with  dreadful  skill, 
As  bastions  set  point-blank  against  God's  will; 
Enlarge  and  fortify  the  dread  redoubt, 
Deeply  resolved  to  shut  a  Saviour  out ; 
Call  legions  up  from  hell  to  back  the  deed, 
And,  cursed  with  conquest,  finally  succeed. 
But  souls  that  carry  on  a  bless' d  exchange 
Of  joys  they  meet  with  in  their  heavenly  range, 
And  with  a  fearless  confidence  make  known 
The  sorrows  sympathy  esteems  its  own, 
Daily  derive  increasing  light  and  force 
From  such  communion  in  their  pleasant  course, 
Feel  less  the  journey's  roughness  and  its  length, 
Meet  their  opposers  with  united  strength, 


2 1 6  CONVERSA  T1ON. 


And  one  in  heart,  in  interest,  and  design, 
Gird  up  each  other  to  the  race  divine. 

But  Conversation,  choose  what  theme  we  may, 
And  chiefly  when  religion  leads  the  way, 
Should  flow  like  waters  after  summer  showers, 
Not  as  if  raised  by  mere  mechanic  powers. 
The  Christian  in  whose  soul,  though  now  distress'd, 
Lives  the  dear  thought  of  joys  he  once  possess'd, 
When  all  his  glowing  language  issued  forth 
With  God's  deep  stamp  upon  its  current  worth, 
Will  speak  without  disguise,  and  must  impart, 
Sad  as  it  is,  his  undissembling  heart, 
Abhors  constraint,  and  dares  not  feign  a  zeal, 
Or  seem  to  boast  a  fire  he  does  not  feel. 
The  song  of  Sion  is  a  tasteless  thing, 
Unless,  when  rising  on  a  joyful  wing, 
The  soul  can  mix  with  the  celestial  bands, 
And  give  the  strain  the  compass  it  demands. 

Strange  tidings  these  to  tell  a  world,  who  treat 
All  but  their  own  experience  as  deceit ! 
Will  they  believe,  though  credulous  enough 
To  swallow  much  upon  much  weaker  proof, 
That  there  are  bless' d  inhabitants  of  earth, 
Partakers  of  a  new  ethereal  birth, 
Their  hopes,  desires,  and  purposes  estranged 
From  things  terrestrial,  and  divinely  changed, 
Their  very  language  of  a  kind  that  speaks 
The  soul's  sure  interest  in  the  good  she  seeks, 
Who  deal  with  Scripture,  its  importance  felt, 
As  Tully  with  philosophy  once  dealt, 
And  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
And  through  the  scenes  of  toil-renewing  light, 
The  social  walk,  or  solitary  ride, 
Keep  still  the  dear  companion  at  their  side  ? 
No — shame  upon  a  self-disgracing  age, 
God's  work  may  serve  an  ape  upon  a  stage 
With  such  a  jest  as  fill'd  with  hellish  glee 
Certain  invisibles  as  shrewd  as  he ; 
But  veneration  or  respect  finds  none, 
Save  from  the  subjects  of  that  work  alone. 
The  World  grown  old  her  deep  discernment  shows, 
Claps  spectacles  on  her  sagacious  nose, 
Peruses  closely  the  true  Christian's  face, 
And  finds  it  a  mere  mask  of  sly  grimace, 
Usurps  God's  office,  lays  his  bosom  bare, 
And  finds  hypocrisy  close  lurking  there, 


CONVERSATION.  217 


And  serving  God  herself  through  mere  constraint, 

Concludes  his  unfei&n'd  love  of  Him  a  feint. 

And  yet,  God  knows,  look  human  nature  through, 

(And  in  due  time  the  world  shall  know  it  too,) 

That  since  the  flowers  of  Eden  felt  the  blast, 

That  after  man's  defection  laid  all  waste, 

Sincerity  towards  the  heart-searching  God 

Has  made  the  new-born  creature  her  abode, 

Nor  shall  be  found  in  unregenerate  souls, 

Till  the  last  fire  burn  all  between  the  poles. 

Sincerity  1  why  'tis  his  only  pride, 

Weak  and  imperfect  in  all  grace  beside, 

He  knows  that  God  demands  his  heart  entire, 

And  gives  him  all  Ilis  just  demands  require. 

Without  it,  his  pretensions  were  as  vain 

As,  having  it,  he  deems  the  world's  disdain  ; 

That  great  defect  would  cost  him  not  alone 

Man's  favorable  judgment,  but  his  own, 

His  birthright  shaken,  and  no  longer  clear 

Than  while  his  conduct  proves  his  heart  sincere. 

Retort  the  charge,  and  let  the  World  be  told 

She  boasts  a  confidence  she  does  not  hold  ; 

That,  conscious  of  her  crimes,  she  feels  instead 

A  cold  misgiving  and  a  killing  dread  : 

That  while  in  health,  the  ground  of  her  support 

Is  madly  to  forget  that  life  is  short ; 

That  sick,  she  trembles,  knowing  she  must  die, 

Her  hope  presumption,  and  her  faith  a  lie  ; 

That  while  she  dotes,  and  dreams  that  she  believes, 

She  mocks  her  Maker,  and  herself  deceives  \ 

Her  utmost  reach,  historical  assent, 

The  doctrines  warp'd  to  what  they  never  meant ; 

The  truth  itself  is  in  her  head  as  dull 

And  useless  as  a  candle  in  a  skull, 

And  all  her  love  of  God  a  groundless  claim, 

A  trick  upon  the  canvas,  painted  flame. 

Tell  her  again,  the  sneer  upon  her  face, 

And  all  her  censures  of  the  work  of  grace, 

Are  insincere,  meant  only  to  conceal 

A  dread  she  would  not,  yet  is  forced  to  feel ; 

And  in  her  heart  the  Christian  she  reveres, 

And  while  she  seems  to  scorn  him,  only  fears, 

A  poet  does  not  work  by  square  or  line, 
As  smiths  and  joiners  perfect  a  design  ; 
At  least  we  moderns,  our  attention  less, 
Beyond  the  example  of  our  sires  digress, 


a  18  CONVERSA  TION. 


A.nd  claim  a  right  to  scamper  and  run  wide, 

Wherever  chance,  caprice,  or  fancy  guide. 

The  world  and  I  fortuitously  met, 

I  owed  a  trifle  and  have  paid  the  debt ; 

fjhe  did  me  wrong,  I  recompensed  the  deed, 

And,  having  struck  the  balance,  now  proceed. 

Perhaps,  however,  as  some  years  have  pass'd 

Since  she  arid  I  conversed  together  last, 

And  I  have  lived  recluse  in  rural  shades, 

Which  seldom  a  distinct  report  pervades, 

Great  changes  and  new  manners  have  occurred, 

And  bless'd  reforms  that  I  have  never  heard, 

And  she  may  now  be  as  discreet  and  wise, 

As  once  absurd  in  all  discerning  eyes. 

Sobriety  perhaps  may  now  be  found 

Where  once  intoxication  press'd  the  ground ; 

The  subtle  and  injurious  may  be  just, 

And  he  grown  chaste  that  was  the  slave  of  lust ; 

Arts  once  esteem'd  may  be  with  shame  dismiss'd, 

Charity  may  relax  the  miser's  fist,  • 

The  gamester  may  have  cast  his  cards  away, 

Forgot  to  curse,  and  only  kneel  to  pray. 

It  has  indeed  been  told  me  (with  what  weight 

How  credibly,  'tis  hard  for  me  to  state), 

That  fables  old,  that  seemed  forever  mute, 

Revived,  are  hastening  into  fresh  repute, 

And  gods  and  goddesses  discarded  long, 

Like  useless  lumber  or  a  stroller's  song, 

Are  bringing  into  vogue  their  heathen  train, 

And  Jupiter  bids  fair  to  rule  again  : 

That  certain  feasts  are  instituted  now,* 

Where  Venus  hears  the  lover's  tender  vow  : 

That  all  Olympus  through  the  country  roves, 

To  consecrate  our  few  remaining  groves, 

And  Echo  learns  politely  to  repeat 

The  praise  of  names  for  ages  obsolete ; 

That  having  proved  the  weakness,  it  should  seem, 

Of  revelation's  ineffectual  beam, 

To  bring  the  passions  under  sober  sway, 

And  give  the  moral  springs  their  proper  play 

They  mean  to  try  what  may  at  last  be  done 

By  stout  substantial  gods  of  wood  and  stone, 

And  whether  Roman  rites  may  not  produce 

The  virtues  of  old  Rome  for  English  use. 


*  Alluding  to  the  profane  orgies  held  at  Medmenham  Abbey  by  Sir  Francis  Dash- 
wood  and  his  friends.    See  "  Mahon's  Hist."  chap.  37. 


CONVERSA  TION.  2 1 9 


May  much  success  attend  the  pious  plan, 

May  Mercury  once  more  embellish  man, 

Grace  him  again  with  long-forgotten  arts, 

Reclaim  his  taste  and  brighten  up  his  parts, 

Make  him  athletic  as  in  days  of  old, 

Learn'd  at  the  bar,  in  the  palaestra  bold, 

Divest  the  rougher  sex  of  female  airs, 

And  teach  the  softer  not  to  copy  theirs. 

The  change  shall  please,  nor  shall  it  matter  ought, 

Who  works  the  wonder,  if  it  be  but  wrought. 

'Tis  time,  however,  if  the  case  stands  thus, 

For  us  plain  folks  and  all  who  side  with  us, 

To  build  our  altar,  confident  and  bold, 

And  say  as  stern  Elijah  said  of  old,* 

"  The  strife  now  stands  upon  a  fair  award, 

If  Israel's  Lord  be  God,  then  serve  the  Lord,— 

If  He  be  silent,  faith  is  all  a  whim, 

Then  Baal  is  the  God,  arid  worship  him  1 ' 

Digression  is  so  much  in  modern  use, 
Thought  is  so  rare,  and  fancy  so  profuse, 
Some  never  seem  so  wide  of  their  intent, 
As  when  returning  to  the  theme  they  meant ; 
As  mendicants,  whose  business  is  to  roam, 
Make  every  parish  but  their  own  their  home. 
Though  such  continual  zigzags  in  a  book, 
Such  drunken  reelings  have  an  awkward  look, 
And  I  had  rather  creep  to  what  is  true, 
Than  rove  arid  stagger  with  no  mark  in  view : 
Yet  to  consult  a  little  seem'd  no  crime, 
The  freakish  humor  of  the  present  time  ; 
But  now  to  gather  up  what  seems  dispersed, 
And  touch  the  subject  I  designed  at  first, 
May  prove,  though  much  beside  the  rules  of  art, 
Best  for  the  public,  and  my  wisest  part. 
And  first  let  no  man  charge  me  that  I  mean 
To  clothe  in  sables  every  social  scene, 
And  give  good  company  a  face  severe, 
As  if  they  met  around  a  father's  bier  j 
For  tell  some  men  that,  pleasure  all  their  bent, 
And  laughter  all  their  work,  is  life  misspent, 
Their  wisdom  bursts  into  this  sage  reply, 
Then  mirth  is  sin,  and  we  should  always  cry. 
To  find  the  medium  asks  some  share  of  wit, 
And  therefore  'tis  a  mark  fools  never  hit. 

«  1  Kings  xviii.  21. 


220  CONVERSA  TIOK. 


But  though  life's  valley  be  a  vale  of  tears, 

A  brighter  scene  beyond  that  vale  appears, 

Whose  glory  with  a  light  that  never  fades, 

Shoots  between  scatter'd  rocks  and  opening  shades, 

And  while  it  shews  the  land  the  soul  desires, 

The  language  of  the  land  she  seeks,  inspires. 

Thus  touch'd,  the  tongue  receives  a  sacred  cure 

Of  all  that  was  absurd,  profane,  impure  ; 

Held  within  modest  bounds,  the  tide  of  speech 

Pursues  the  course  that  truth  and  nature  teach, 

No  longer  labors  merely  to  produce 

The  pomp  of  sound,  or  tinkle  without  use : 

Where'er  it  winds,  the  salutary  stream, 

Sprightly  and  fresh,  enriches  every  theme, 

While  all  the  happy  man  possess'd  before, 

The  gift  of  nature,  or  the  classic  store, 

Is  made  subservient  to  the  grand  design 

For  which  Heaven  formed  the  faculty  divine. 

So,  should  an  idiot,  while  at  large  he  strays, 

Find  the  sweet  lyre  on  which  an  artist  plays, 

With  rash  and  awkward  force  the  chords  he  shakes 

And  grins  with  wonder  at  the  jar  he  makes ; 

But  let  the  wise  and  well-instructed  hand 

Once  take  the  shell  beneath  his  just  command. 

In  gentle  sounds  it  seems  as  it  complain'd 

Of  the  rude  injuries  it  late  sustain'd, 

Till  turned  at  length  to  some  immortal  song, 

It  sounds  Jehovah's  name,  and  pours  His  praise  along, 


RE  TIRE  ME  NT.  2  2 1 


RETIREMENT. 


ARGUMENT. 

Hie  busy  universally  desirous  of  retirement— Important  purpose  for  which  this  desire 
was  given  to  man— Musing  on  tin-  works  of  the  creation,  a  happy  employment- 
service  of  <}od  not  incompatible,  h<>\\c\«-r.  with  a  life  of  business— Unman  life; its 
pursuits— Various  motives  for  seeking  retirement— The  poet's  delight  in  the  study 
of  nature— The  lover's  fondness  for  iv:  in-im-nt—  The  hvpoehondriac— Melancholy, 
a  malady  that  claims  most  compassion,  hut  receive-  tin-  lea-l  —  Sull'erin^s  of  the 
melancholy  man— The  statesman's  retirement  —  His  new  mode  of  life— Soon  wenry 
of  retirement,  he  returns  to  his  former  pursuits— Citi/ens'  villas— Fashion  of  fre- 
quenting watering-places — The  ocean— The  spendthrift  in  forced  retirement — Th« 
sportsman  ostler—  The  management  of  leisure  a  difficult  task— Man  will  be  sum- 
moned to  account  for  the  employment  of  life— Bonks  ami  friends  requisite  lor  the 
man  of  leisure;  and  divine  communion  to  till  Che»  remaining  roid—- Beligion  not 
adverse  to  innocent  pleasures— The  poet  concludes  \\ith  a  reference  toLis  own 
pursuits. 


"studiis  florens  ignobilis  oti-"— VIRO.  Gear.,  lib.  4. 


HACKNEY'D  in  business,  wearied  at  that  oar, 

Which  thousands,  once  fast  chain'd  to,  quit  no  more, 

But  which,  when  life  at  ebb  runs  weak  and  low, 

All  wish,  or  seem  to  wish,  they  could  forego  ; 

The  statesman,  lawyer,  merchant,  man  of  trade, 

Pants  for  the  refuge  of  some  rural  shade, 

Where  all  his  long  anxieties  forgot, 

Amid  the  charms  of  a  sequester'd  spot, 

Or  recollected  only  to  gild  o'er 

And  add  a  smile  to  what  was  sweet  before, 

He  may  possess  the  joys  he  thinks  he  sees, 

Lay  his  old  age  upon  the  lap  of  ease, 

Improve  the  remnant  of  his  wasted  span. 

And,  having  lived  a  trifler,  die  a  man. 

Thus  conscience  pleads  her  cause  within  the  breast, 

Though  long  rebell'd  against,  not  yet  suppress'd, 

And  calls  a  creature  form'd  for  God  alone, 

For  Heaven's  high  purposes  and  not  his  own, 

CalLs  him  away  from  selfish  ends  and  aims, 

Prom  what  debilitates  and  what  inflames, 

From  cities  humming;  with  a  restless  crowd 

Sordid  as  active,  ignorant  as  loud, 


RETIREMENT. 


Whose  highest  praise  is  that  they  live  in  vain, 

The  dupes  of  pleasure,  or  the  slaves  of  gain, 

Where  works  of  man  are  cluster'd  close  around. 

And  works  of  God  are  hardly  to  be  found, 

To  regions  where  in  spite  of  sin  and  woe, 

Traces  of  Eden  are  still  seen  below, 

Where  mountain,  river,  foresti  field,  and  grove 

Remind  him  of  his  Maker's  power  and  love. 

'Tis  well  if  looked  for  at  so  late  a  day, 

In  the  last  scene  of  such  a  senseless  play. 

True  wisdom  will  attend  his  feeble  call, 

And  grace  his  action  ere  the  curtain  fall. 

Souls  that  have  long  despised  their  heavenly  birth. 

Their  wishes  all  impregnated  with  earth, 

For  threescore  years  em  ploy 'd  with  ceaseless  care, 

In  catching  smoke  and  feeding  upon  air ; 

Conversant  only  with  the  ways  of  men, 

Rarely  redeem  the  short  remaining  ten. 

Inveterate  habits  choke  the  unfruitful  heart. 

Their  fibres  penetrate  its  tenderest  part, 

And  draining  its  nutritious  powers  to  feed 

Their  noxious  growth,  starve  every  better  seed: 

Happy  if  full  of  days — but  happier  far, 
If  ere  we  yet  discern  life's  evening  star, 
Sick  of  the  service  of  a  world  that  feeds 
Its  patient  drudges  with  dry  chaff  and  weeds, 
We  can  escape  from  custom's  idiot  sway, 
To  serve  the  Sovereign  we  were  born  to  obey. 
Then  sweet  to  muse  upon  his  skill  display'd 
(Infinite  skill)  in  all  that  He  has  made ! 
To  trace  in  Nature's  most  minute  design 
The  signature  and  stamp  of  power  divine, 
Contrivance  intricate  express'd  with  ease, 
Where  unassisted  sight  no  beauty  sees, 
The  shapely  limb  and  lubricated  joint, 
Within  the  small  dimensions  of  a  point ; 
Muscle  and  nerve  miraculously  spun, 
His  mighty  work  who  speaks  and  it  is  done, 
The  Invisible  in  things  scarce  seen  reveal'd, 
To  whom  an  atom  is  an  ample  field  ; 
To  wonder  at  a  thousand  insect  forms, 
These  hatch'd,  and  those  resuscitated  worms, 
New  life  ordain'd  and  brighter  scenes  to  share, 
Once  prone  on  earth,  now  buoyant  upon  air, 
Whose  shape  would  make  them,  had  they  bulk  and  size, 
More  hideous  foes  than  fancy  can  devise  ; 


RETIREMENT.  223 


With  helmet-heads  and  dragon  scales  adorn'd, 

The  mighty  myriads,  now  securely  scorn'd, 

Would  mock  the  majesty  of  man's  high  birth, 

Despise  his  bulwarks,  and  unpeople  earth. 

Then  with  a  glance  of  fancy  to  survey, 

Far  as  the  faculty  can  stretch  away, 

Ten  thousand  rivers  pour'd  at  His  command 

From  urns  that  never  fail,  through  every  land, 

These  like  a  deluge  with  impetuous  force, 

Those  winding  modestly  a  silent  course ; 

The  cloud-surmounting  Alps  ;  the  fruitful  vales ; 

Seas,  on  which  every  nation  spreads  her  sails  ; 

The  sun,  a  world  whence  other  worlds  drink  light ; 

The  crescent  moon,  the  diadem  of  night ; 

Stars  countless,  each  in  his  appointed  place, 

Fast  anchor'd  in  the  deep  abyss  of  space  j — 

At  such  8  sight  to  catch  the  poet's*  flame, 

And  with  a  rapture  like  his  own  exclaim, 

"  These  are  Thy  glorious  works,  thou  Source  ot  good, 

How  dimly  seen,  how  faintly  understood  ! 

Thine,  and  upheld  by  Thy  paternal  care, 

This  universal  frame,  thus  wondrous  fair; 

Thy  power  divine,  and  bounty  beyond  thought, 

Adored  and  praised  in  all  that  Thou  hast  wrought, 

Absorb'd  in  that  immensity  I  see, 

I  shrink  abased,  and  yet  aspire  to  Thee ; 

Instruct  me,  guide  me  to  that  heavenly  day, 

Thy  words  more  clearly  than  Thy  works,  display, 

That  while  Thy  truths  my  grosser  thoughts  refine, 

I  may  resemble  Thee  and  call  Thee  mine." 

O  blest  proficiency  !  surpassing  all 
That  men  erroneously  their  glory  call, 
The  recompense  that  arts  or  arms  can  yield, 
The  bar,  the  senate,  or  the  tented  field. 
Compared  with  this  sublimest  life  below, 
Ye  kings  and  rulers,  what  have  courts  to  show  ? 
Thus  studied,  used,  and  consecrated  thus, 
Whatever  is,  seems  form'd  indeed  for  us  1 
Not  as  the  plaything  of  a  froward  child, 
Fretful  unless  diverted  and  beguiled, 
Much  less  to  feed  and  fan  the  fatal  fires 
Of  pride,  ambition,  or  impure  desires ; 
But  as  a  scale  by  which  the  soul  ascends 
From  mighty  means  to  more  important  ends, 

*  Milton,  in  Paradise  Lost. 


224  RE  TIREMENT. 


Securely,  though  by  steps  but  rarely  trod, 
Mounts  from  inferior  beings  up  to  God, 
And  sees  by  no  fallacious  light  or  dim, 
Earth  made  for  man,  and  man  himself  for  Him. 

Not  that  I  mean  to  approve,  or  would  enforce, 
A  superstitious  and  monastic  course 
Truth  is  not  local ;  God  alike  pervades 
And  fills  the  world  of  traffic  and  the  shades, 
And  may  be  feared  amidst  the  busiest  scenes, 
Or  scorn'd  where  business  never  intervenes. 
But  'tis  not  easy  with  a  mind  like  curs, 
Conscious  of  weakness  in  its  noblest  powers, 
And  in  a  world  where,  other  ills  apart, 
The  roving  eye  misleads  the  careless  heart, 
To  limit  thought,  by  nature  prone  to  stray 
Wherever  freakish  fancy  points  the  way : 
To  bid  the  pleadings  of  self-love  be  still, 
Resign  our  own  and  seek  our  Maker's  will ; 
To  spread  the  page  of  Scripture,  and  compare 
Our  conduct  with  the  laws  engraven  there ; 
To  measure  all  that  passes  in  the  breast, 
Faithfully,  fairly,  by  that  sacred  test ; 
To  dive  into  the  secret  deeps  within, 
To  spare  no  passion  and  no  favorite  sin, 
And  search  the  themes,  important  above  all, 
Ourselves  and  our  recovery  from  our  fall. 
But  leisure,  silence,  and  a  mind  released 
Prom  anxious  thoughts  how  wealth  may  be  increased 
How  to  secure  in  some  propitious  hour, 
The  point  of  interest  or  the  post  of  power, 
A  soul  serene,  and  equally  retired 
From  objects  too  much  dreaded  or  desired, 
Safe  from  the  clamors  of  perverse  dispute, 
At  least  are  friendly  to  the  great  pursuit. 

Opening  the  map  of  God's  extensive  plan, 
We  find  a  little  isle,  this  life  of  man  ; 
Eternity's  unknown  expanse  appears 
Circling  around  and  limiting  his  years  ; 
The  busy  race  examine  and  explore 
Each  creek  and  cavern  of  the  dangerous  shore, 
With  care  collect  what  in  their  eyes  excels, 
Some  shining  pebbles,  and  some  weeds  and  shells ; 
Thus  laden  t dream  that  they  are  rich  and  great, 
And  happiest  he  that  groans  beneath  his  weight. 
The  waves  o'eftake  them  in  their  serious  play, 
And  every  hour  sweeps  multitudes  away  ; 


RE  TIRE  ME  NT.  2  2  5 


They  shriek  and  sink,  survivors  start  and  weep, 
Pursue  their  sport,  and  follow  to  the  deep. 
A  few  forsake  the  throng,  with  lifted  eyes 
Ask  wealth  of  Heaven,  and  gain  a  real  prize, 
Truth,  wisdom,  grace,  and  peace  like  that  above, 
Seal'd  with  His  signet  whom  they  serve  and  love  ; 
Scorn'd  by  the  rest,  with  patient  hope  they  wait 
A  kind  release  from  their  imperfect  state, 
And  unregretted  are  soon  snatch'd  away 
From  scenes  of  sorrow  into  glorious  day. 

Nor  these  alone  prefer  a  life  recluse, 
Who  seek  retirement  for  its  proper  use  ; 
The  love  of  change  that  lives  in  every  breast, 
Genius,  and  temper,  and  desire  of  rest, 
Discordant  motives  in  one  centre  meet, 
And  each  inclines  its  votary  to  retreat. 
Some  minds  by  nature  are  averse  to  noise, 
And  hate  the  tumult  half  the  world  enjoys, 
The  lure  of  avarice,  or  the  pompous  prize 
That  courts  display  before  ambitious  eyes, 
The  fruits  that  hang  on  pleasure's  flowery  stem, 
Whate'er  enchants  them  are  no  snares  to  them. 
To  them  the  deep  recess  of  dusky  groves, 
Or  forest  where  the  deer  securely  roves, 
The  fall  of  waters  and  the  song  <>t'  birds, 
And  hills  that  echo  to  the  distant  herds, 
Are  luxuries  excelling  all  the  -lure 
The  world  can  boast  and  lu*r  chief  favorites  shan 
With  eager  step,  and  carelessly  array'd, 
For  such  a  cause  the  poet  seeks  the  shade, 
From  all  he  sees  he  catches  new  delight, 
Pleased  Fancy  claps  her  pinions  at  the  sight ; 
The  rising  or  the  setting  orb  of  day, 
The  clouds  that  flit,  or  slowly  float  away, 
Nature  in  all  the  various  shapes  she  wears, 
Frowning  in  storms,  or  breathing  gentle  airs, 
The  snowy  robe  her  wintry  state  assumes, 
Her  summer  heats,  her  fruits,  and  her  perfumes. 
All,  all  alike  transport  the  glowing  bard, 
Success  in  rhyme  his  glory  and  reward. 
O  Nature  !  whose  Elysian  scenes  disclose 
His  bright  perfections  at  whose  word  they  rose, 
Next  to  that  Power  who  form'd  thee  and  sustains, 
Be  thou  the  great  inspirer  of  my  strains. 
Still  as  I  touch  the  lyre,  do  thou  expand 
Thy  genuine  charms,  and  guide  an  artless  hand, 

15 


RETIREMENT, 


That  I  may  catch  a  fire  but  rarely  known, 
Give  useful  light  though  I  should  miss  renown. 
And  poring  on  thy  page,  whose  every  line 
Bears  proof  of  an  intelligence  divine, 
May  feel  a  heart  enrich' d  by  what  it  pays, 
That  builds  its  glory  on  its  Maker's  praise. 
Woe  to  the  man  whose  wit  disclaims  its  use, 
Glittering  in  vain,  or  only  to  seduce, 
Who  studies  nature  with  a  wanton  eye, 
Admires  the  work,  but  slips  the  lesson  by  ; 
His  hours  of  leisure  and  recess  employs 
In  drawing  pictures  of  forbidden  joys, 
Retires  to  blazon  his  own  worthless  name, 
Or  shoot  the  careless  with  a  surer  aim. 

The  lover  too  shuns  business  and  alarms, 
Tender  idolater  of  absent  charms. 
Saints  offer  nothing  in  their  warmest  prayers, 
That  he  devotes  not  with  a  zeal  like  theirs  ; 
Tis  consecration  of  his  heart,  soul,  time, 
And  every  thought  that  wanders  is  a  crime. 
In  sighs  he  worships  his  supremely  fair, 
And  weeps  a  sad  libation  in  despair, 
Adores  a  creature,  and  devout  in  vain, 
Wins  in  return  an  answer  of  disdain. 
As  woodbine  weds  the  plant  within  her  reach, 
Rough  elm,  or  smooth-grain'd  ash,  or  glossy  beech 
In  spiral  rings  ascends  the  trunk,  and  lays 
Her  golden  tassels  on  the  leafy  sprays, 
But  does  a  mischief  while  she  lends  a  grace, 
Straitening  its  growth  by  such  a  strict  embrace, 
So  love,  that  clings  around  the  noblest  minds, 
Forbids  the  advancement  of  the  soul  he  binds  ; 
The  suitor's  air  indeed  he  soon  improves, 
And  forms  it  to  the  taste  of  her  he  loves, 
Teaches  his  eyes  a  language,  and  no  less 
Refines  his  speech  and  fashions  his  address ; 
But  farewell  promises  of  happier  fruits, 
Manly  designs,  and  learning's  grave  pursuits, 
Girt  with  a  chain  he  cannot  wish  to  break, 
His  only  bliss  is  sorrow  for  her  sake  ; 
Who  will  may  pant  for  glory  and  excel, 
Her  smile  his  aim,  all  higher  aims  farewell  I 
Thyrsis,  Alexis,  or  whatever  name 
May  least  offend  against  so  pure  a  flame, 
Though  sage  advice  of  friends  the  most  sincere 
Sounds  harshlv  in  so  delicate  an  ear. 


RETIREMENT. 


And  lovers,  of  all  creatures,  tame  or  wild, 
Can  least  brook  management,  however  mild, 
Yet  let  a  poet  (poetry  disarms 
The  fiercest  animals  with  magic  charms) 
Risk  an  intrusion  on  thy  pensive  mood, 
And  woo  and  win  thee  to  thy  proper  good. 
Pastoral  images  and  still  retreats, 
Umbrageous  walks  and  solitary  seats, 
Sweet  birds  in  concert  with  harmonious  streams, 
Soft  airs,  nocturnal  vigils,  and  day-dreams, 
Are  all  enchantments  in  a  case  like  thine, 
Conspire  against  thy  peace  with  one  design, 
Soothe  thee  to  make  thee  but  a  surer  prey, 
And  feed  the  fire  that  wastes  thy  powers  away. 
Up — God  has  form'd  thee  with  a  wiser  view, 
Not  to  be  led  in  chains,  but  to  subdue  ; 
Calls  thee  to  cope  with  enemies,  and  first 
Points  out  a  conflict  with  thyself,  the  worst. 
Woman  indeed,  a  ^ift  He  would  bestow 
When  lie  design 'd  a  Paradise  below, 
The  richest  earthly  boon  His  hands  afford, 
Deserves  to  be  beloved,  but  not  adored. 
Post  away  swiftly  to  more  active  scenes, 
Collect  the  scatter'd  truths  that  study  gleans, 
Mix  with  the  world,  but  with  its  wiser  part, 
No  longer  give  an  image  all  thine  heart  \ 
Its  empire  is  not  hers,  nor  is  it  thine, 
'Tis  God's  just  claim,  prerogative  divine. 

Virtuous  and  faithful  HEBERDEN,*  whose  skill 
Attempts  no  task  it  cannot  well  fulfil, 
Gives  melancholy  up  to  nature's  care, 
And  sends  the  patient  into  purer  air. 
Look  where  he  comes — in  this  einbower'd  alcove, 
Stand  close  conceal' d,  and  see  a  statue  move  : 
Lips  busy,  and  eyes  fix'd,  foot  falling  slow, 
Arms  hanging  idly  down,  hands  clasp'd  below, 
Interpret  to  the  marking  eye  distress, 
Such  as  its  symptoms  can  alone  express. 
That  tongue  is  silent  now, — that  silent  tongue 
Could  argue  once,  could  jest,  or  join  the  song, 
Could  give  advice,  could  censure  or  commend, 
Or  charm  the  sorrows  of  a  drooping  friend. 
Renounced  alike  its  office  and  its  sport, 
Its  brisker  and  its  graver  strains  fall  short ; 

*  Dr.  William  Heberden,  a  distinguished  physician,  who  was  Cowper's  medical 
friend.    He  died  in  1801. 


228  RE  TIRE  ME  NT. 


Both  fail  beneath  a  fever's  secret  sway, 

And  like  a  summer  brook  are  pass'd  away. 

This  is  a  sight  for  pity  to  peruse 

Till  she  resembles  faintly  what  she  views, 

Till  sympathy  contract  a  kindred  pain, 

Pierced  with  the  woes  that  she  laments  in  vain. 

This  of  all  maladies  that  man  infest, 

Claims  most  compassion  and  receives  the  least : 

Job  felt  it  when  he  groan 'd  beneath  the  rod, 

And  the  barbed  arrows  of  a  frowning  God  ; 

And  such  emollients  as  his  friends  could  spare, 

Friends  such  as  his  for  modern  Jobs- prepare. 

Bless'd,  rather  cursed,  with  hearts  that  never  feel, 

Kept  snug  in  caskets  of  close-hammer'd  steel, 

With  mouths  made  only  to  grin  wide  and  eat, 

And  minds  that  deem  derided  pain  a  treat ; 

With  limbs  of  British  oak,  and  nerves  of  wire, 

And  wit  that  puppet  prompters  might  inspire, 

Their  sovereign  nostrum  is  a  clumsy  joke 

On  pangs  enforced  with  God's  severest  stroke. 

But  with  a  soul  that  ever  felt  the  sting 

Of  sorrow,  sorrow  is  a  sacred  thing  ; 

Not  to  molest,  or  irritate,  or  raise 

A  laugh  at  his  expense,  is  slender  praise  ; 

He  that  has  not  usurp' d  the  name  of  man 

Does  all,  and  deems  too  little  all,  he  can, 

To  assuage  the  throbbings  of  the  fester' d  part, 

And  staunch  the  bleedings  of  a  broken  heart. 

'Tis  not,  as  heads  that  never  ache  suppose, 

Forgery  of  fancy,  and  a  dream  of  woes  ; 

Man  is  a  harp,  whose  chords  elude  the  sight, 

Each  yielding  harmony,  disposed  aright ; 

The  screws  reversed,  (a  task  which  if  He  please 

God  in  a  moment  executes  with  ease,) 

Ten  thousand  thousand  strings  at  once  go  loose, 

Lost,  till  he  tune  them,  all  their  power  and  use. 

Then  neither  heathy  wilds,  nor  scenes  as  fair 

As  ever  recompensed  the  peasant's  care, 

Nor  soft  declivities  with  tufted  hills, 

Nor  view  of  waters  turning  busy  mills, 

Parks  in  which  Art  preceptress  Nature  weds, 

Nor  gardens  interspersed  with  flowery  beds, 

Nor  gales,  that  catch  the  scent  of  blooming  groves 

And  waft  it  to  the  mourner  as  he  roves, 

Can  call  up  life  into  his  faded  eye, 

That  passes  all  he  sees  unheeded  by : 


RE  TIREMENT.  229 


No  wounds  like  those  a  wounded  spirit  feels, 

No  cure  for  such,  till  God,  who  makes  them,  heals. 

And  thou  sad  sufferer  under  nameless  .11. 

That  yields  not  to  the  touch  of  human  skill, 

Improve  the  kind  occasion,  understand 

A  Father's  frown,  and  kiss  His  chastening  hand. 

To  thee  the  da\  spring  and  the  blaze  of  noon, 

The  purple  evening  and  resplendent  moon, 

The  stars  that,  sprinkled  o'er  the  vault  of  night, 

Seem  drops  descending  in  a  shower  of  light, 

Shine  not,  or  undesired  and  hated  shine, 

Seen  through  the  medium  of  a  cloud  like  thine  : 

Yet  seek  Him,  in  His  favor  life  is  found, 

All  bliss  besid  •    a  shadow  or  a  sound  ; 

Then  Heaven,  eclipsed  so  long,  and  tin's  dull  earth, 

Shall  seem  to  start  into  a  second  birth  ; 

Nature  assuming  a  more  lovely  face, 

Borrowing  a  beauty  from  the  works  of  grace, 

Shall  be  despised  and  overlook'd  no  more, 

Shall  fill  thee  with  delights  unfelt  bet'oi 

Impart  to  things  inanimate  a  voice, 

And  bid  her  mountains  and  her  hills  rejoice  ; 

The  sound  shall  run  along  the  winding  vales. 

And  thou  enjoy  an  Eden  ere  it  fails. 

*'  Ye  groves,"  (the  statesman  at  his  desk  exclaims, 
Sick  of  a  thousand  disappointed  aims,) 
"  My  patrimonial  treasure  and  my  pride, 
Beneath  your  shades  your  gray  possessor  hide! 
Receive  me  languishing  for  that  repose 
The  servant  of  the  public  never  knows. 
Ye  saw  rue  once  (ah,  those  regretted  days 
When  boyish  innocence  was  all  my  praise!) 
Hour  after  hour  delightfully  allot 
To  studies  then  familiar,  since  forgot, 
And  cultivate  a  taste  for  ancient  song, 
Catching  its  ardor  as  I  mused  along  ; 
Nor  seldom,  as  propitious  Heaven  might  send, 
What  once  I  valued  and  could  boast,  a  friend, 
Were  witnesses  how  cordially  I  press'd 
His  undissembling  virtue  to  my  breast ; 
Receive  me  now,  not  uncorrupt  as  then, 
Nor  guiltless  of  corrupting  other  men, 
But  versed  in  arts  that  while  they  seem  to  stay 
A  falling  empire,  hasten  its  decay. 
To  the  fair  haven  of  my  native  home, 
The  wreck  of  what  I  was,  fatigued  I  come  ; 


*3  °  RE  TIRE  ME  NT. 


For  once  I  can  approve  the  patriot's  voice, 

Arid  make  the  course  he  recommends  iny  choice : 

We  meet  at  last  in  one  sincere  desire, — 

His  wish  and  mine  both  prompt  me  to  retire." 

'Tis  done  ; — he  steps  into  the  welcome  chaise, 

Lolls  at  his  ease  behind  four  handsome  bays, 

That  whirl  away  from  business  and  debate 

The  disencuinber'd  Atlas  of  the  state. 

Ask  not  the  boy,  who,  when  the  breeze  of  morn, 

First  shakes  the  glittering  drops  from  every  thorn 

Unfolds  his  flock,  then  under  bank  or  bush 

Sits  linking  cherry-stones,  or  platting  rush, 

How  fair  is  freedom  ? — he  was  always  free  ; 

To  carve  his  rustic  name  upon  a  tree, 

To  snare  the  mole,  or  with  ill-fashion' d  hook 

To  draw  the  incautious  minnow  from  the  brook, 

Are  life's  prime  pleasures  in  his  simple  view, 

His  flock  the  chief  concern  he  ever  knew  ; 

She  shines  but  little  in  his  heedless  eyes, 

The  good  we  never  miss  we  rarely  prize. 

But  ask  the  noble  drudge  in  state  affairs, 

Escaped  from  office  and  its  constant  cares, 

What  charms  he  sees  in  Freedom's  smile  express'd, 

In  freedom  lost  so  long,  now  repossess' d  ; 

The  tongue  whose  strains  were  cogent  as  commands, 

Revered  at  home,  and  felt  in  foreign  lands, 

Shall  own  itself  a  stammerer  in  that  cause, 

Or  plead  its  silence  as  its  best  applause. 

He  knows  indeed  that  whether  dress'd  or  rude, 

Wild  without  art,  or  artfully  subdued, 

Nature  in  every  form  inspires  delight, 

But  never  mark'd  her  with  so  ju'st  a  sight. 

Her  hedge-row  shrubs,  a  variegated  store, 

With  woodbine  and  wild  roses  mantled  o'er, 

Green  balks  and  furrow'd  lands,  the  stream  that  spreads 

Its  cooling  vapor  o'er  the  dewy  meads, 

Downs  that  almost  escape  the  inquiring  eye, 

That  melt  and  fade  into  the  distant  sky, 

Beauties  he  lately  slighted  as  he  pass'd, 

Seem  all  created  since  he  travell'd  last. 

Master  of  all  the  enjoyments  he  design'd, 

No  rough  annoyance  rankling  in  his  mind, 

What  early  philosophic  hours  he  keeps, 

How  regular  his  meals »  how  sound  he  sleeps  I 

Not  sounder  he  that  on  the  mainmast  head, 

While  morning  kindles  with  a  windy  red, 


RETIREMENT.  231 


Begins  a  long  look-out  for  distant  land, 

Nor  quits  till  evening  watch  his  giddy  stand, 

Then  swift  descending  with  a  seaman's  haste, 

Slips  to  his  hammock,  and  forgets  the  blast. 

He  chooses  company,  but  riot  the  squire's, 

Whose  wit  is  rudeness,  whose  good  breeding  tires  ; 

Nor  yet  the  parson's,  who  would  gladly  coine, 

Obsequious  when  abroad,  though  proud  at  home; 

Nor  can  he  much  affect  the  neighboring  peer, 

Whose  toe  of  emulation  treads  too  near, 

But  wisely  seeks  a  more  convenient  friend, 

With  whom,  dismissing  forms,  he  may  unbend, — 

A  man  whom  marks  of  condescending  grace 

Teach,  while  they  flatter  him,  his  proper  place, — 

Who  comes  when  call'd,  and  at  a  word  withdraws, 

Speaks  with  reserve,  and  listens  with  applause  ; 

Some  plain  mechanic,  who  without  pretence 

To  birth  or  wit,  nor  gives  nor  takes  offence, 

On  whom  he  rests  well  pleased  his  weary  powers, 

And  talks  and  laughs  away  his  vacant  hours. 

The  tide  of  life,  swift  always  in  its  course, 

May  run  in  cities  with  a  brisker  force, 

But  nowhere  with  a  current  so  serene, 

Or  half  so  clear  as  in  the  rural  scene. 

Yet  how  fallacious  is  all  earthly  bliss, 

What  obvious  truths  the  wisest  heads  may  miss! 

Some  pleasures  live  a  month,  and  some  a  year, 

But  short  the  date  of  all  we  gather  here  ; 

No  happiness  is  felt  except  the  true, 

That  does  not  charm  thee  more  for  being  new. 

This  observation,  as  it  chanced,  not  made, 

Or,  if  the  thought  occurr'd  not  duly  weigh'd, 

He  sighs — for  after  all,  by  slow  degrees, 

The  spot  he  loved  has  lost  the  power  to  please  \ 

To  cross  his  ambling  pony  day  by  day 

Seems  at  the  best  but  dreaming  life  away ; 

The  prospect,  such  as  might  enchant  despair, 

He  views  it  not,  or  sees  no  beauty  there  ; 

With  aching  heart,  and  discontented  looks, 

Returns  at  noon  to  billiards  or  to  books, 

But  feels,  while  grasping  at  his  faded  joys, 

A  secret  thirst  of  his  renounced  employs. 

He  chides  the  tardiness  of  every  post, 

Pants  to  be  told  of  battles  won  or  lost, 

Blames  his  own  indolence,  observes,  though  late, 

'Tis  criminal  to  leave  a  sinking  state, 


232  RETIREMENT. 


Flies  to  the  levee,  and,  received  with  grace, 
Kneels,  kisses  hands,  and  shines  again  in  place. 

Suburban  villas,  highway-side  retreats, 
That  dread  the  encroachment  of  our  growing  streets, 
Tight  boxes  neatly  sash'd,  and  in  a  blaze 
With  all  a  July  sun's  collected  rays, 
Delight  the  citizen,  who,  gasping  there, 
Breathes  clouds  of  dust,  and  calls  it  country  air. 
O  sweet  retirement,  who  would  balk  the  thought 
That  could  afford  retirement,  or  could  not  ? 
'Tis  such  an  easy  walk,  so  smooth  and  straight, 
The  second  milestone  fronts  the  garden  gate  ; 
A  step  if  fair,  and,  if  a  shower  approach, 
You  find  safe  shelter  in  the  next  stage-coach. 
There  prison' d  in  a  parlor  snug  and  small, 
Like  bottled  wasps  upon  a  southern  wall, 
The  man  of  business  and  his  friends  compress'dt 
Forget  their  labors,  and  yet  find  no  rest ; 
But  still  'tis  rural — trees  are  to  be  seen 
From  every  window,  and  the  fields  are  green  \ 
Ducks  paddle  in  the  pond  before  the  door, 
And  what  could  a  remoter  scene  show  more  ? 
A  sense  of  elegance  we  rarely  find 
The  portion  of  a  mean  or  vulgar  mind, 
And  ignorance  of  better  things  makes  man, 
Who  cannot  much,  rejoice  in  what  he  can ; 
And  he  that  deems  his  leisure  well  bestowed 
In  contemplation  of  a  turnpike  road, 
Is  occupied  as  well,  employs  his  hours 
As  wisely,  and  as  much  improves  his  powers, 
As  he  that  slumbers  in  pavilions  graced 
With  all  the  charms  of  an  accomplish'd  taste. 
Yet  hence,  alas  !  insolvencies  ;  and  hence 
The  unpitied  victim  of  ill-judged  expense, 
From  all  his  wearisome  engagements  freed, 
Shakes  hands  with  business,  and  retires  indeed. 

Your  prudent  grandmammas,  ye  modern  belles, 
Content  with  Bristol,  Bath,  and  Tunbridge  Wells, 
When  health  required  it,  would  consent  to  roam, 
Else  more  attach'd  to  pleasures  found  at  home  j 
But  now  alike,  gay  widow,  virgin,  wife, 
Ingenious  to  diversify  dull  life, 
In  coaches,  chaises,  caravans,  and  hoys, 
Fly  to  the  coast  for  daily,  nightly  joys, 
Arid  all  impatient  of  dry  land  agree 
With  one  consent  to  rush  into  the  sea. 


RETIREMENT.  233 


Ocean  exhibits,  fathomless  and  broad, 

Much  of  the  power  and  majesty  of  God  ; 

He  swathes  about  the  swelling  of  the  deep, 

That  shines  and  rests  as  infants  smile  and  sleep ; 

Vast  as  it  is  it  answers  as  it  flows, 

The  breathings  of  the  lightest  air  that  blows ; 

Curling  and  whitening  over  all  the  waste, 

The  rising  waves  obey  the  increasing  blast, 

Abrupt  and  horrid  as  the  tempest  roars, 

Thunder  and  flash  upon  the  steadfast  shores, 

Till  He  that  rides  the  whirlwind  checks  the  rein, 

Then  all  the  world  of  waters  sleeps  again. 

Nereids  or  Dryads,  as  the  fashion  leads, 

Now  in  the  floods,  now  panting  in  the  meads, 

Votaries  of  Pleasure  still,  where'er  she  dwells, 

Near  barren  rocks,  in  palaces,  or  cells, 

Oh  grant  a  poet  leave  to  recommend 

(A  poet  fond  of  Nature,  and  your  friend) 

Her  slighted  works  to  your  admiring  view  ; 

Her  works  must  needs  excel,  who  fashion'd  you. 

Would  ye,  when  rambling  in  your  morning  ride, 

With  some  unmeaning  coxcomb  at  your  side, 

Condemn  the  prattler  for  his  idle  pains, 

To  waste  unheard  the  music  of  his  strains, 

And,  deaf  to  all  th^  impertinence  of  tongue, 

That,  while  it  courts,  affronts  and  does  you  wrong, 

Mark  well  the  finish'd  plan  without  a  fault, 

The  seas  globose  and  huge,  the  o'erarching  vault, 

Earth's  millions  daily  fed,  a  world  employ'd 

In  gathering  plenty  yet  to  be  enjoy'd, 

Till  gratitude  grew  vocal  in  the  praise 

Of  God,  beneficent  in  all  His  ways  ; 

Graced  with  such  wisdom  how  would  beauty  shine  I 

Ye  want  but  that  to  seem  indeed  divine. 

Anticipated  rents  and  bills  unpaid 
Force  many  a  shining  youth  into  the  shade, 
Not  to  redeem  his  time,  but  his  estate, 
And  play  the  fool,  but  at  a  cheaper  rate. 
There,  hid  in  loathed  obscurity,  removed 
From  pleasures  left,  but  never  more  beloved, 
lie  just  endures,  and  with  a  sickly  spleen 
Sighs  o'er  the  beauties  of  the  charming  scene. 
Nature  indeed  looks  prettily  in  rhyme ; 
Streams  tinkle  sweetly  in  poetic  chime  ; 
The  warblings  of  the  blackbird,  clear  and  strong. 
Are  musical  enough  in  Thomson's  song  ; 


234  RETIREMENT. 


And  Cobharn's  groves,  and  Windsor's  green  retreats, 
When  Pope  describes  them,  have  a  thousand  sweets ; 
He  likes  the  country,  but  in  truth  must  own, 
Most  likes  it  when  he  studies  it  in  town. 

Poor  Jack — no  matter  who — for  when  I  blame, 
I  pity,  and  must  therefore  sink  the  name, — 
Lived  in  his  saddle,  loved  the  chase,  the  course, 
And  always,  ere  he  mounted,  kiss'd  his  horse. 
The  estate  his  sires  had  own'd  in  ancient  years, 
Was  quickly  distanced,  match'd  against  a  peer's. 
Jack  vanish'd,  was  regretted,  and  forgot ; 
"Pis  wild  good  nature's  never  failing  lot. 
At  length,  when  all  had  long  supposed  him  dead, 
By  cold  submersion,  razor,  rope,  or  lead, 
My  lord,  alighting  at  his  usual  place, 
The  Crown,  took  notice  of  an  ostler's  face. 
Jack  knew  his  friend,  but  hoped  in  that  disguise 
He  might  escape  the  most  observing  eyes, 
And  whistling,  as  if  unconcern' d  and  gay, 
Curried  his  nag  and  look'd  another  way. 
Convinced  at  last,  upon  a  nearer  view, 
'Twas  he,  the  same,  the  very  Jack  he  knew, 
O'erwhelm'd  at  once  with  wonder,  grief,  and  joy, 
He  press 'd  him  much  to  quit  his  base  employ  ; 
His  countenance,  his  purse,  his  heart,  his  hand, 
Influence  and  power,  were  all  at  his  command. 
Peers  are  not  always  generous  as  well  bred, 
But  Granby  was, — meant  truly  what  he  said. 
Jack  bow'd,  and  was  obliged  ; — confessed  'twas  strange 
That  so  retired  he  should  not  wish  a  change, 
But  knew  no  medium  between  guzzling  beer, 
And  his  old  stint — three  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

Thus  some  retire  to  nourish  hopeless  woe ; 
Some  seeking  happiness  not  found  below ; 
Some  to  comply  with  humor,  and  a  mind 
To  social  scenes  by  nature  disinclined  ; 
Some  sway'd  by  fashion,  some  by  deep  disgust ; 
Some  self-impoverish'd,  and  because  they  must ; 
But  few,  that  court  retirement,  are  aware 
Of  half  the  toils  they  must  encounter  there. 

Lucrative  offices  are  seldom  lost 
For  want  of  powers  proportion'd  to  the  post: 
Give  e'en  a  dunce  the  employment  he  desires, 
And  he  soon  finds  the  talents  it  requires ; 
A  business  with  an  income  at  its  heels 
Furnishes  always  oil  for  its  own  wheels. 


RETIREMENT.  235 


But  in  his  arduous  enterprise  to  close 

His  active  years  with  indolent  repose, 

He  finds  the  labors  of  that  state  exceed 

His  utmost  faculties,  severe  indeed. 

'Tis  easy  to  resign  a  toilsome  place, 

But  not  to  manage  leisure  with  a  grace  ; 

Absence  of  occupation  is  not  rest, 

A  mind  quite  vacant  is  a  mind  distress'd. 

The  veteran  steed  excused  his  task  at  length, 

In  kind  compassion  of  his  failing  strength, 

And  turn'd  into  the  park  or  mead  to  graze, 

Exempt  from  future  service  all  his  days, 

There  feels  a  pleasure  perfect  in  its  kind, 

Ranges  at  liberty,  and  snuffs  the  wind  : 

But  when  his  lord  would  quit  the  busy  road, 

To  taste  a  joy  like  that  he  has  bestow'd, 

He  proves,  less  happy  than  his  favor'd  brute, 

A  life  of  ease  a  difficult  pursuit. 

Thought,  to  the  man  that  never  thinks,  may  seein 

As  natural  as  when  asleep  to  dream  \ 

But  reveries  (for  human  minds  will  act) 

Specious  in  show,  impossible  in  fact, 

Those  flimsy  webs  that  break  as  soon  as  wrought, 

Attain  not  to  the  dignity  of  thought : 

Nor  yet  the  swarms  that  occupy  the  brain, 

Where  dreams  of  dress,  intrigue,  and  pleasure  reign, 

Nor  such  as  useless  conversation  breeds, 

Or  lust  engenders,  and  indulgence  feeds. 

Whence,  and  what  are  we  ?     To  what  end  ordained  ? 

What  means  the  drama  by  the  world  sustained  ? 

Business  or  vain  amusement,  care  or  mirth, 

Divide  the  frail  inhabitants  of  earth. 

Is  duty  a  mere  sport,  or  an  employ  ? 

Life  an  entrusted  talent,  or  a  toy  ? 

Is  there,  as  reason,  conscience,  Scripture  say, 

Cause  to  provide  for  a  great  future  day, 

When,  earth's  assign'd  duration  at  an  end, 

Man  shall  be  summon'd,  and  the  dead  attend  ? 

The  trumpet — will  it  sound  ?  the  curtain  rise  ? 

And  shew  the  august  tribunal  of  the  skies, 

Where  no  prevarication  shall  avail, 

Where  eloquence  and  artifice  shall  fail, 

The  pride  of  arrogant  distinctions  fall, 

And  conscience  and  our  conduct  judge  us  all  ? 

Pardon  me,  ye  that  give  the  midnight  oil 

To  learned  cares  or  philosophic  toil, 


236  RETIREMENT. 


Though  I  revere  your  honorable  names, 
Your  useful  labors,  and  important  aims, 
And  hold  the  world  indebted  to  your  aid, 
Enrich'd  with  the  discoveries  ye  have  made, 
Vet  let  me  stand  excused,  if  I  esteem 
A  mind  employ'd  on  so  sublime  a  theme, 
Pushing  her  bold  inquiry  to  the  date 
And  outline  of  the  present  transient  state, 
And  after  poising  her  adventurous  wings, 
Settling  at  last  upon  eternal  things, 
Par  more  intelligent,  and  better  taught 
The  strenuous  use  of  profitable  thought, 
Than  ye  when  happiest,  and  enlighten' d  most> 
And  highest  in  renown,  can  justly  boast. 

A  mind  unnerved,  or  indisposed  to  bear 
The  weight  of  subjects  worthiest  of  her  care, 
Whatever  hopes  a  change  of  scene  inspires, 
Must  change  her  nature,  or  in  vain  retires. 
An  idler  is  a  watch  that  wants  both  hands  ; 
As  useless  if  it  goes  as  when  it  stands. 
Books  therefore,  not  the  scandal  of  the  shelves, 
In  which  lewd  sensualists  print  out  themselves, 
Nor  those  in  which  the  stage  gives  vice  a  blow, 
(With  what  success  let  modern  manners  shew  :) 
Nor  his  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  born, 
Built  God  a  church,  and  laiigh'd  His  Word  to  scorn,* 
Skilful  alike  to  seem  devout  and  just, 
And  stab  religion  with  a  sly  slide-thrust ; 
Nor  those  of  learn'd  philologists,  who  chase 
A  panting  syllable  through  time  and  space, 
Start  it  at  home,  and  hunt  it  in  the  dark, 
To  Gaul,  to  Greece,  and  into  Noah's  ark  ; 
But  such  as  learning  without  false  pretence, 
The  friend  of  truth,  the  associate  of  sound  sense, 
And  such  as  in  the  zeal  of  good  design, 
Strong  judgment  laboring  in  the  Scripture  mine, 
All  such  as  manly  and  great  souls  produce, 
Worthy  to  live,  and  of  eternal  use  ; 
Behold  in  these  what  leisure  hours  demand, 
Amusement  and  true  knowledge  hand  in  hand. 
Luxury  gives  the  mind  a  childish  cast, 
And  while  she  polishes,  perverts  the  taste  ; 
Habits  of  close  attention,  thinking  heads, 
Become  more  rare  as  dissipation  spreads, 

*  Voltaire  :  he  built  a  church  and  inscribed  on  the  porch  Deo  erexit  Voltaire. 


RETIREMENT.  237 


Till  authors  hear  at  length  one  general  cry, 

Tickle  and  entertain  us,  or  we  die  ! 

The  loud  demand  from  year  to  year  the  same 

Beggars  invention  and  makes  fancy  lame, 

Till  farce  itself,  most  mournful  jejune, 

Calls  for  the  kind  assistance  of  a  tune, 

And  novels  (witness  every  month's  review)* 

Belie  their  name,  and  offer  nothing  new. 

The  mind  relaxing  into  needful  sport, 

Should  turn  to  writers  of  an  abler  sort, 

Whose  wit  well  managed,  and  whose  classic  style 

Give  truth  a  lustre,  and  make  wisdom  smile. 

Friends,  (for  1  cannot  stint  as  some  have  done, 

Too  rigid  in  my  view,  that  name  to  one, 

Though  one,  I  grant  it,  in  the  generous  breast 

Will  stand  advanced   i  Mep  above  the  rest  ; 

Flowers  by  that  name  promiscuously  we  call, 

But  one,  the  rose,  the  regent  of  them  all ;) 

Friends,  not  adopted  with  a  schoolboy's  haste, 

But  chosen  with  a  nice  ilii-.-erning  taste, 

Well  born,  well  disciplined,  who,  placed  apart 

From  vulgar  minds,  have  honor  much  at  heart, 

And,  though  the  world  may  think  the  ingredients  odd, 

The  love  of  virtue,  and  the  fear  of  God  ! 

Such  friends  prevent  what  else  would  soon  succeed, 

A  temper  rustic  as  the  life  we  lead, 

And  keep  the  polish  of  the  manners  clean, 

As  theirs  who  bustle  in  the  busiest  scene  \ 

For  solitude,  however  some  may  rave, 

Seeming  a  sanctuary,  proves  a  grave, 

A  sepulchre  in  which  the  living  lie, 

Where  all  good  qualities  grow  sick  and  die. 

I  praise  the  Frenchman  ;  f  his  remark  was  shrewd, — 

"How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet,  is  solitude ! 

But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat, 

Whom  I  may  whisper — Solitude  is  sweet," 

Yet  neither  these  delights,  nor  aught  beside 

That  appetite  can  ask,  or  wealth  provide, 

Can  save  us  always  from  a  tedious  day, 

Or  shine  the  dulness  of  still  life  away  ; 

Divine  communion  carefully  enjoy'd, 

Or  sought  with  energy,  must  fill  the  void. 

O  sacred  art !  to  which  alone  life  owes 

Its  happiest  seasons,  arid  a  peaceful  close, 


*  The  Monthly,  a  review  of  that  period.  t  La  Bruyere. 


238  RETIREMENT. 

Scorn' d  in  a  world  indebted  to  that  scorn 

For  evils  daily  felt  and  hardly  borne, 

Not  knowing  thee,  we  reap,  with  bleeding  hands, 

Flowers  of  rank  odor  upon  thorny  lands, 

And  while  experience  cautions  us  in  vain, 

Grasp  seeming  happiness,  and  find  it  pain. 

Despondence,  self-deserted  in  her  grief, 

Lost  by  abandoning  her  own  relief ; 

Murmuring  and  ungrateful  discontent, 

That  scorns  afflictions  mercifully  meant ; 

Those  humors  tart  as  wines  upon  the  fret, 

Which  idleness  and  weariness  beget ; 

These  and  a  thousand  plagues  that  haunt  the  breast, 

Fond  of  the  phantom  of  an  earthly  rest, 

Divine  communion  chases,  as  the  day 

Drives  to  their  dens  the  obedient  beasts  of  prey. 

See  Judah's  promised  king,  *  bereft  of  all, 

Driven  out  an  exile  from  the  face  of  Saul, 

To  distant  Caves  f  the  lonely  wanderer  flies, 

To  seek  that  peace  a  tyrant's  frown  denies. 

Here  the  sweet  accents  of  his  tuneful  voice, 

Hear  him,  o'erwhelm'd  with  sorrow,  yet  rejoice  ; 

No  womanish  or  wailing  grief  has  part, 

No,  not  a  moment,  in  his  royal  heart ; 

'Tis  manly  music,  such  as  martyrs  make, 

Suffering  with  gladness  for  a  Saviour's  sake  ; 

His  soul  exalts,  hope  animates  his  lays, 

The  sense  of  mercy  kindles  into  praise, 

And  wilds  familiar  with  a  lion's  roar, 

Ring  with  ecstatic  sounds  unheard  before. 

'Tis  love  like  his  that  can  alone  defeat 

The  foes  of  man,  or  make  a  desert  sweet. 

Religion  does  not  censure  or  exclude 
Unnumber'd  pleasures  harmlessly  pursued. 
To  study  culture,  and  with  artful  toil 
To  meliorate  and  tame  the  stubborn  soil ; 
To  give  dissimilar  yet  fruitful  lands 
The  grain,  or  herb,  or  plant  that  each  demands ; 
To  cherish  virtue  in  an  humble  state, 
And  share  the  joys  your  bounty  may  create ; 
To  mark  the  matchless  workings  of  the  power 
That  shuts  within  its  seed  the  future  flower, 
Bids  these  in  elegance  of  form  excel, 
In  color  these,  and  those  delight  the  smell, 

*  David.  1 1  Sam.  xxii.  1 ;  xxiy.  3. 


RETIREMENT.  239 


Sends  Nature  forth,  the  daughter  of  the  skies, 
To  dance  on  earth,  and  eharni  all  human  eyes  ; 
To  teach  the  canvas  innocent  deceit, 
Or  lay  the  landscape  on  the'  snowy  sheet ; 
These,  these  are  arts  pursued  without  a  crime, 
That  leave  no  stain  upon  the  wing  of  time. 

Me  poetry  (or,  rather  notes  that  aim 
Feebly  and  vainly  at  poetic  fame) 
Employs,  shut  out  from  more  important  views, 
Fast  by  the  banks  of  the  slow- winding  Ouse  ; 
Content  if,  thus  sequester'd  I  may  raise 
A  monitor's,  though  not  a  poet's  praise, 
And  while  I  teach  an  art  too  little  known, 
To  close  life  wisely,  may  not  waste  my  own* 


240          THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT   FARTHER  THAN   HE   INTENDED, 
AND  CAME  SAFE   HOME  AGAIN. 

1782. 


The  story  of  John  Gilpin- s  ride  was  related  to  Cowper  by  his  friend,  Lady  Austen, 
who  had  heard  it  as  a  child.  It  caused  the  poet  a  sleepless  night,  we  are  told,  as  he 
was  kept  awake  by  laughter  at  it.  During  these  restless  hours  he  turned  it  into  the 
famous  ballad.  It  appeared  in  the  Public  Advertiser,  November  14th,  1782,  anony- 
mously. 

A  celebrated  actor  named  Henderson  took  it  for  one  of  his  public  recitations  at 
Freemasons'  Hall.  It  became  immediately  so  popular  that  it  was  printed  everywhere 
— in  newspapers,  magazines,  and  separately.  It  was  even  sung  as  a  common  ballad  in 
the  streets.  It  has  preserved  its  popularity  to  the  present  date. 

The  original  John  Gilpin  was,  it  is  said,  a  Mr.  Beyer,  a  linendraper,  who  lived  at 
the  Cheapside  corner  of  Paternoster  Row.  He  died  in  179J  at  the  age  of  nearly  a  hun- 
dred years. 

„      '  s   ~r^~f*    ' 

JOHN  GILPIN  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  trainband  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin' s  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 

"  Though  wedded  we  have  been 
These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 

No  holiday  have  seen. 

To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

My  sister,  arid  my  sister's  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three, 
Will  fill  the  chaise  ;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied, — "  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one, 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear* 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.  241 

I  am  a  linendraper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin, — "  That's  well  said  ; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife ; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find, 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  oft  the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in  ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 

Were  never  folk  so  glad, 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again  ; 

For  saddletree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time, 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty  screaming  came  dowa  stairs, 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind  ! " 

16 


242  THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

"  Good  lack  !  "  quoth  he,  "  yet  bring  it  me 

My  leathern  belt  likewise, 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now  Mistress  Gil  pin  (careful  soul !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 

And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed, 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones, 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

^ 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So  "  Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain  j 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought 

Away  went  hat  and  wig  ; 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.          243 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly, 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till,  loop  and  button  falling  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 

The  bottles  he  had  slung ; 
A  bottle  swinging  at  each  sid 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed 

Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  '*  Well  done  ! ' 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around  ; 
"  He  carries  weight ! '    ''He  rides  a  race  I  'y    y 

"  'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  ! ' 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 

'Twas  wonderful  to  view, 
How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike  men 

Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low, 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced  ; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 

Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington, 

These  gambols  he  did  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  Wash  about, 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 


244  THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

At  Edmonton,  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"  Stop,  stop>  John  Gilpin  ! — Here's  the  house ! " 

They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 
"  The  dinner  waits,  arid  we  are  tired :  " — 

Said  Gilpin— "  So  am  1 1  " 


But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there ; 
For  why  ? — his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Grilpin,  out  of  breath, 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till,  at  his  friend  the  calender's, 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him  :- 

"  What  news  ?  what  news  ?  your  tidings  tell 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall- 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? ': 

Now  Gilpiri  had  a  pleasant  wit, 

Arid  loved  a  timely  joke ; 
Arid  thus  unto  the  calender, 

In  merry  guise,  he  spoke  : 

I  came  because  your  horse  could  come 
And,  if  I  well  forebode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, — 
They  are  upon  the  road." 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in  ; 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.          245 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig  ; 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn, 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit  : 
My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  —  "  It  is  my  wedding  day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare, 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah  !  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast, 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear  ; 
For  while  he  spake,  a  braying  n 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear  ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig: 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 

For  why  ?  —  they  were  too  big. 

Now  mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half-a-crown  ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"  This  shall  be  yours,  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well. 


" 


240  THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN. 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain  ; 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop 

By  catching  at  his  rein  j 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more 
And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels, 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 
With  postboy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry : — 

"  Stop  thief !  stop  thief ! — a  highwayman ! ' 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike-gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space  ; 
The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing  long  live  the  King, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I  be  there  to  see ! 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA.  247 


THE  TASK. 

IN  SIX   BOOKS. 

1785. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  history  of  the  following  production  is  briefly  thin  :  A  lady,  fond  of  blank 
demanded  a  poem  of  that  kind  from  the  Author,  and  gave  him  the  SOFA  for  a  subject, 
Heobeyed;  and,  having  much  leisure,  connected  another  subject  \\ithit  ;  and,  pursuing 
the  train  of  thought  to  which  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind  led  him,  brought  i'urth  at 
length,  instead  of  the  trifle  which  he  at  lirst  intended,  a  serious  affair—  a  Volume. 

In  the  poem  on  thesubjeetof  Education,  lie  would  !><•  very  sorry  to  stand  suspec  ted  of 
having  aimed  his  censure  at  any  particular  school.     His  objections  are  si:ch  as  naturally 


apply  themselves  jo  s<  ho,  ,].-  in  /ciit'.ral.  If  there  \s  ere  not,  as  for  the  most  part  theie  is. 
wilful  neglect  in  those  who  manage  them,  an<l  an  (.mission  even  of  such  discipline  as 
they  are  susceptible  of,  the  objects  are  yet  too  numerous  for  minute  attention  ;  and  the 
aching  hearts  of  ten  thousand  parents,  mourning  under  the  bitter,  st  of  all  disappoint- 
ments, attest  the  truth  of  the  allegation.  His  1,  tlifiifilme,  is  with  the  inis<jdef 

at  large,  and  not  with  any  particular  instance  of  it. 


BOOK  I.— THE  SOFA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Historical  deduction  of  seats,  from  the  stool  to  the  sofa— A  schoolboy's  ramble— A  walk 
in  the  country— The  scene  described— Rural  sounds  a-  \\ell  as  sights  delightful— 
Another  walk— Mis  •ncm-ning  th.e  charms  of  solitude  cpr.tec.ted-  Qojoniiaden 

commenced — Alcove,  and  ;he  view  from  it — Ihe  wilderness — The  grove — The 
thresher — The  necessity  and  the  benefits  of  exercise — The  works  of  nature  superior 
to,  ami  in  some  instances  illimitable  byr  art — The  wearisonieness  of  what  is  <  oin- 


passionated,  hut  chietly  Qniai—  His  present  stale  of  mind  supposed—  (  'ivili/.ed  life 
friendly  to  virtue,  but  not  "great  cities  —  Great  cities,  and  London  in  particular, 
allowed  their  due  praise,  but  censured  —  Fete  champetre  —  The  book  concludes  with 
a  reflection  on  the  effects  of  dissipation  ABiLeJEeminacy  upon  our  public  measures. 


the  Sofa.     I  who  lately  sang 
Truth,  Hope,  and  Charity,  and  touch'd  with  awe 
The  solemn  chords,  and  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Escaped  with  pain  from  that  adventurous  flight, 
Now  seek  repose  upon  an  humbler  theme  ; 
The  theme  though  humble,  yet  august  and  proud 
The  occasion  —  for  the  Fair  *  commands  the  song. 

*  Lady  Austen,  who  suggested  the  "Task." 


248  THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 


Time  was,  when  clothing  sumptuous  or  for  use, 
•Save  their  own  painted  skins,  our  sires  had  none. 
As  yet  black  breeches  were  not ;  satin  smooth, 
Or  velvet  soft,  or  plush  with  shaggy  pile : 
The  hardv  chief  upon  the  rugged  rock 
Wash'd  by  the  sea,  or  on  the  gravelly  bank 
Thrown  up  by  wintry  torrents  roaring  loud, 
Fearless  of  wrong,  reposed  his  weary  strength. 
Those  barbarous  ages  past,  succeeded  next 
The  birthday  of  Invention,  weak  at  first, 
Dull  in  design,  and  clumsy  to  perform. 
Joint-stools  were  then  created  ;  on  three  legs 
Upborne  they  stood : — three  legs  upholding  firm 
A  massy  slab,  in  fashion  square  or  round. 
On  such  a  stool  immortal  Alfred  sat, 
And  sway'd  the  sceptre  of  his  infant  realms  ; 
And  such  in  ancient  halls  and  mansions  drear 
May  still  be  seen,  but  perforated  sore 
And  drill'd  in  holes  the  solid  oak  is  found, 
By  worms  voracious  eating  through  and  through. 

Atlength  a  generation  more  refined 
Improved  the  simple  plan  ;  made  three  legs  four, 
Gave  them  a  twisted  form  vermicular, 
And  o'er  the  seat  with  plenteous  wadding  stuff'd 
Induced  a  splendid  cover,  green  and  blue, 
Yellow  and  red,  of  tapestry  richly  wrought 
And  woven  close,  or  needlework  sublime. 
There  might  ye  see  the  piony  spread  wide, 
The  full-blown  rose,  the  shepherd  and  his  lass, 
Lap-dog  and  lambkin  with  black  staring  eyes, 
And  parrots  with  twin  cherries  in  their  beak. 

Now  came  the  cane  froni  India,  smooth  and  bright 
With  Nature's  varnish,  sever' d  into  stripes 
That  interlaced  each  other,  these  supplied 
Of  texture  firm  a  lattice-work,  that  braced 
The  new  machine,  and  it  became  achair. 
But  restless  was  the  chair ;  the  back  erect 
Distress'd  the  weary  loins,  that  felt  no  ease  ; 
The  slippery  seat  betray'd  the  sliding  part 
Tha.t,  pressed  it.  and  the  feet  hung  dangling  down, 
Anxious  in  vain  to  find  the  distant  floor. 
These  for  the  rich  ;  the  rest,  whom  fate  had  placed 
In  modest  mediocrity,  content 
With  base  materials,  sat  on  well-tann'd  hides 
Obdurate  and  unyielding,  glassy  smooth, 
With  here  and  there  a  tuft  of  crimson  yarn, 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 


249 


Or  scarlet  crewel  *  in  the  cushion  fix'd  : 
If  cushion  might  be  call'd,  what  harder  seem'd 
Than  the  firm  oak  of  which  the  frame  was  form'd. 
No  want  of  timber  then  was  felt  or  fear'd 
In  Albion's  happy  isle.     The  lumber  stood  v 

Ponderous,  and  fix'd  by  its  own  massy  weight. 
But  elbows  still  were  wanting  ;  these,  some  say, 
An  alderman  of  Cripplegate  contrived, 
And  some  ascribe  the  invention  to  a  priest, 
Burly  and  big,  and  studious  of  his  ease. 
But  rude  at  first,  and  not  with  easy  slope 
Receding  wide,  they  press'd  against  the  ribs, 
,  And  bruised  the  side  and  elevated  high 
Taught  the  raised  shoulders  to  invade  the  ears. 
Long  time  elapsed  or  e'er  our  rugged  sires 
Compiain'd,  though  incommodiously  pent  in, 
And  ill  at  ease  behind.     The  ladies  first 
'Gail  miirfnur,  as  became  the  softer  sex. 
Ingenious  Fancy,  never  better  pleased 
Than  when  em  ploy 'd  to  accommodate  the  fair, 
Heard  the  sweet  moan  with  pity,  and  devised 
The  soft  settee  ;  one  elbow  at  each  end, 
And  in  the  midst  an  elbow,  it  received, 
United  yet  divided,  twain  at  once. 
So  sit  two  kings  of  Brentford  on  one  throne  ;f 
Arid  so  two  citizens  who  take  the  air 
Close  pack'd  and  smiling,  in  a  chaise  and  one. 
But  relaxation  of  the  languid  frame 
By  soft  recumbency  of  outstretch'd  limbs, 
Was  bliss  reserved  for  happier  days  ; — so  slow 
Tli9vgrowth  of  what  is  excellent,  so  hard 
To  attain  perfection  in  this  nether  world. 

(Thus  first  Necessity  invented  stools, 
Cfonvenience  next  suggested  elbow-chairs, 
And  Lu x 1 1 rv  the  accomplish'd  SOFA  last. 
The  nurse  sleeps  sweetly,  hired  to  watch  the  sick, 
Whom  snoring  she  disturbs.     As  sweetly  he 
Who  quits  the  coach-box  at  the  midnight  hour 
To  sleep  within  the  carriage  more  secure, 
His  legs  depending  at  the  open  door. 
Sweet  sleep  enjoys  the  curate  in  his  desk, 
The  tedious  rector  drawing  o'er  his  head, 


*  Tarn  or  worsted. 

t  The  two  kings  of  Brentford  who  sat  on  one  throne  and  held  a  bouquet  between 
thorn,  were  characters  in  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  famous  "  Rehearsal,"  a  comedy 
which  without  doubt  suggested  the  "  Critic." 


250  THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 

And  sweet  the  clerk  below  :  but  neither  sleep 
Of  lazy  nurse,  who  snores  the  sick  man  dead, 
Nor  his  who  quits  the  box  at  midnight  hour 
To  slumber  in  the  carriage  more  secure, 
Nor  sleep  enjoy'd  by  curate  in  his  desk, 
Nor  yet  the  dozings  of  the  clerk  are  sweet, 
Compared  with  the  repose  the  Sofa  yields. 

Oh  may  I  live  exempted  (while  I  live 
Guiltless  of  pamper'd  appetite  obscene) 
From  pangs  arthritic  that  infest  the  toe      «,  y 
Of  libertine  excess.     The  Sofa  suits  <\V$^ 

The  gouty  limb,  'tis  true  ;  but  gouty  limb, 
Though  on  a  Sofa,  may  I  never  feel : 

-  For  I  have  loved  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 
Of  grassy  Swart'h  cl6Se  crdpp'd  by  nibbling  sheep, 
And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 
Of  thorny  boughs  ;  have  loved  the  rural  walk 
O'er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  rivers'  brink, 
E'er  since  a  truant  boy  I  pass'd  my  bounds 
To  enjoy  a  ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames. 
And  still  remember,  nor  without  regret, 
Of  hours,  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endear'd, 
How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consumed, 
Still  hungering,  penniless  and  far  from  home, 
I  fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws, 
Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries  that  emboss 
The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 
Hard  fare  !  but  such  as  boyish  appetite 
Disdains  not,  nor  the  palate  undepraved 

-^  Bv  culinary  arts  unsavory  deems.     __ 
No  Sofa  then  awaited  my  return  ; 
Nor  Sofa  then  I  needed.     Youth  repairs 
His  wasted  spirits  quickly,  by  long  toil 
Incurring  short  fatigue  ;  and  though  our  years 
As  life  declines,  speed  rapidly  away, 
And  not  a  year  but  pilfers  as  he  goes 
Some  youthful  grace  that  age  would  gladly  keep, 
A  tooth  or  auburn  lock,  and  by  degrees 
Their  length  and  color  from  the  locks  they  spare  ; 
The  elastic  spring  of  an  unwearied  foot 
That  mounts  the  stile  with  ease,  or  leaps  the  fence, 
That  play  of  lungs,  inhaling  and  again 
Respiring  freely  the  fresh  air,  that  makes 
Swift  pace  or  steep  ascent  no  toil  to  me, 
Mine  have  not  pilfer'd  yet ;  nor  yet  impair'd 
My  relish  of  fair  prospect ;  scenes  that  soothed 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 


Or  charm'd  me  young,  no  longer  young,  I  find 

Still  soothing,  and  of  power  to  charm  me  still. 

And  witness,  dear  companion  of  my  walks,* 

Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  I  perceive 

Fast  lock'd  in  mine,  with  pleasure  such  as  love. 

Confirm 'd  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth 

And  well-tried  virtues,  could  alone  inspire, 

Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long. 

Thou  knowest  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere, 

Arjd.thatrny  raptures  are  not  conjured  up 

To  serve  nc'-asions  of  poetic  pomp, 

But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 

How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 

Has  slacken'd  to  a  pause,  arid  we  have  borne 

The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 

While  admiration*  feeding  at  the  eye. 

And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 

Thence  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discern'd 

The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside 

His  laboring  team,  that  swerved  riot  from  the  track 

The  sturdy  swain  diminish'd  to  a  boy. 

Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 

Of  spacious  meads  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er, 

.Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 

Delighted.     There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank 

Stand,  never  overlook'd,  our  favorite  elms, 

That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut ; 

While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 

That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale, 

The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds  ; 

Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 

Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tower, 

Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 

Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear  ;  l/Vv^  v 

Scenes  must  be  bea.utifiil  which  dqjly  view'rlj 
Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 
Long  knowledge  and  the  scrutiny  of  years  : 
Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe. 
Nor  ruraj  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  nature.     Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 

.._    ,_  ------ _  .  __  _  _ 

*  Mrs.  Unwin. 


252  THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 

The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind  ; 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighboring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  arid  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  tneinselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that,  with  a  livelier  green, 
Betrays  £He"seeret'  of  their  silent  course. 

/Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds, 

vBiit  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 
To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  livelong  night :  nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 
Nice-finger'd  art  must  emulate  in  vain, 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud ; 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  even  the  boding  owl 
That  hails  the  rising,niojoi^l^v_e_charins  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves,  and  harsh, 
Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  forever  rei gns , 
A^djcmly  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

Peace  to  the  artist,  whose  ingenious  thought 
Devised  the  weather-house,  that  useful  toy  ! 
Fearless  of  humid  air  and  gathering  rains 
Forth  steps  the  man,  an  emblem  of  myself, 
More  delicate,  his  timorous  mate  retires. 
When  winter  soaks  the  fields,  and  female  feet, 
Too  weak  to  struggle  with  tenacious  clay, 
Or  ford  the  rivulets,  are  best  at  home, 
The  task  of  new  discoveries  falls  on  me. 
At  such  a  season,  and  witli  such  a  charge, 
Once  went  I  forth,  and  found,  till  then  unknown 
A  cottage,  whither  oft  we  since  repair : 
'Tis  perch' d  upon  the  green  hill-top,  but  close 
Environ'd  with  a  ring  of  branching  elms 
That  overhang  the  thatch,  itself  unseen 
Peeps  at  the  vale  below  ;  so  thick  beset 
With  foliage  of  such  dark  redundant  growth, 
I  calPd  the  low-roof 'd  lodge  the  peasant's  nest. 
And  hidden  as  it  is.  and  far  remote 
From  such  unpleasing  sounds  as  haunt  the  ear 
In  village  or  in  town,  the  bay  of  curs 
Incessant,  clinking  hammers,  grinding  wheels, 


THE  1  ASK.— THE  SOFA.  253 


And  infants  clamorous  whether  pleas' d  or  pain'd, 

Oft  have  I  wish'd  the  peaceful  covert  mine. 

Here,  Lhave  said,  at  least  1  should  possess 

The  poet's  treasure,  silence,  and  indultre          \J 

The  dreams  of  .fancy,  tranquil  and  secure. 

Vain  thought !  the  dweller  in  that  still  retreat 

Dearly  obtains  the  refuge  it  affords. 

Its  elevated  site  forbids  the  wretch 

To  drink  sweet  waters  of  the  crystal  well  ; 

He  dips  his  bowl  into  the  weedy  ditch, 

And,  heavy-laden,  brings  his  beverage  home, 

Far-fetch'd  and  little  worth  ;  nor  seldom  waits, 

Dependent  on  the  baker's  punctual  call, 

To  hear  his  creaking  panniers  at  the  door, 

Angry  and  sad,  and  his  last  crust  consumed. 

So  farewell  envy  of  the  peasant's  nest. 

If  solitude  make  scant  the  means  of  life, 

S<  icietv  for  me  ! — Thou  seeming  sweet, 

Be  still  a  pleasing  object  in  my  view, 

My  visit  still,  but  never  mine  abode. 

Not  distant  far,  a  length  of  colonnade 
Invites  us  :  monument  of  ancient  taste, 
Now  scorn' d,  but  worthy  of  a  better  fate. 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen 
From  sultry  suns,  and  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long  protracted  bowers,  enjoy'd  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  declining  day. 
We  bear  our  shades  about  us  ;  self-depriv'd 
Of  other  screen,  the  thin  umbrella  spread, 
And  range  an  Indian  waste  without  a  tree. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus  * — he  spares  me  yet 
Thes3  chestnuts  ranged  in  corresponding  lines, 
And,  t'lough  himself  so  polish'd,  still  reprieves 
The  obsolete  prolixity  of  shade. 

Descending  now  (but  cautious  lest  too  fast,) 
A  sudden  steep,  upon  a  rustic  bridge, 
We  pass  a  gulf,  in  which  the  willows  dip 
Their  pendent  boughs,  stooping  as  if  to  drink. 
Hence,  ankle-deep  in  moss  and  flowery  thyme, 
We  mount  again,  and  feel  at  every  step 
Our  foot  half  sunk  in  hillocks  green  and  soft, 
Raised  by  the  mole,  the  miner  of  the  soil. 
He,  not 


Disfigures  earth,  and  plotting  in  the  dark, 

*  John  Courtenay  Throckmorton,  Esq.,  of  Weston-Uuderwood,  a   great  friend  of 
Cowper's. 


254  THE  TASK— THE  SOFA. 


Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile, 
That  may  record  the  mischiefs  he  has  done. 

The  summit  gain'd,  behold  the  proud  alcove 
That  crowns  it !  yet  not  all  its  pride  secures 
The  grand  retreat  from  injuries  impress'd 
By  rural  carvers,  who  with  knives  deface 
The  panels,  leaving  an  obscure,  rude  name, 
In  characters  uncouth,  and  spelt  amiss. 
So  strong  the  zeal  to  immortalize  himself 
Beats  in  the  breast  of  man,  that  even  a  few, 
Few  transient  years,  wjori  from  the  abyss  abhorr'd 
Of  blank  oblivion,  seem  a  glorious  prize, 
And  even  to  a  clown.     Now  roves  the  eye, 
And  posted  on  this  speculative  height 
Exults  in  its  command.     The  sheepfold  here 
Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first,  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 
The  middle  field  ;  but  scatter'd  by  degrees, 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 
There,  from  the  sunburnt  hay-field,  homeward  creeps 
The  loaded  wain,  while,  lighten'd  of  its  charge, 
The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by, 
The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team, 
Vociferous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 
.Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene, 
Led  with  trees  of  every 


yet  yariousj Here  ine  gray,  smooth  trunks 
ash,  or  lime,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine, 
"Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shados  ; 
There  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood 
Seems  sunk,  and  shorten' d  to  its  topmost  boughs. 
No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  its  charms, 
Though  each  its  hue  peculiar  ;  paler  some, 
And  of  a  wannish  gray  ;  the  willow  such, 
And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lines  his  leaf, 
^nd  a,sh  fa.r  stretching  his  umbrageous  arm  ', 
Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still, 
Lord  of  the  woods,  the  long-surviving  oak. 
Some  glossy-leaved,  and  shining  in  the  sun, 
The  maple,  and  the  beech  of  oily  nuts 
Prolific,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 
"Diffusing  odors  :  nor  unnoted  pass 
The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire, 
Now  green,  now  tawny,  and,  ere  autumn  yet 
Have  changed  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honors  bright, 
O'er  these,  but  far  beyond  (a  spacious  map 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA.  255 


Of  hill  aiid  vailey  interposed  between.) 
The  Ouse,  dividing  the  well-water' d  land 
Now  glitters  in  the  sun,  arid  now  retires, 
As  bashful,  yet  impatient  to  be  seen. 

Hence  the  declivity  is  sharp  and  short, 
And  such  the  re-ascent ;  between  them  weeps 
A  little  naiad  her  impoverish'd  urn 
All  summer  long,  which  winter  fills  again. 
The  folded  gates  would  bar  my  progress  now, 
But  that  the  lord  of  this  enclosed  demesne, 
Communicative  of  the  good  he  owns, 
Admits  me  to  a  share  :  the  guiltless  eye 
Commits  no  wrong,  nor  wastes  what  it  enjoys. 
Refreshing  change  1  where  now  the  blazing  sun  ? 
By  short  transition  we  have  lost  his  glare, 
And  stepp'd  at  once  into  a  cooler  clime. 
Ye  fallen  avenues !  once  more  I  mourn 
Your  fate  unmerited,  once  more  rejoice 
That  yet  a  remnant  of  your  race  survives. 
How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch, 
Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Re-echoing  pious  anthems  !  while  beneath 

PM.rth  SPPTHH  rPstl^SS.  fl.s'n.  flood 


V 

*   ' 


Brjusli'd  by  th«'  wind.     So  sportive  is  the  light 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance, 
Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick, 
And  darkening,  and  enlightening,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton,  every  moment,  every  spot. 

And  now,  with  nerves  new-braced  and  spirits  cheer'd.. 
We  tread  the  wilderness,  whose  well-roll'd  walks, 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep- 
Deception  innocent — gives  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds.     The  grove  receives  us  next ; 
Between  the  upright  shafts  of  whose  tall  elms 
We  may  discern  the  thresher  at  his  task. 
Thump  after  thump  resounds  the  constant  flail, 
That  seems  to  swing  uncertain,  and  yet  falls 
Full  on  the  destined  ear.     Wide  £ ies  the  chaff ; 
The  rustling  straw  sends  up  a  frequent  mist  \     ./ 
Of  atoms,  sparkling  in  the  noonday  beam.      / 
Come  hither,  ye  that  press  your  beds  of  down 
And  sleep  not ;  see  him  sweating  o'er  his  bread 
Before  he  eats  it. — 'Tis  the  primal  curse, 
But  soften'd  into  mercy  ;  made  the  pledge 
Of  cheerful  days,  and  nights  without  a  groan, 

By  ceaseless  action,  all  that  is  subsists. 


256  THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 

Constant  rotation  of  the  unwearied  wheel 
That  Nature  rides  upon,  maintains  h«  r  health, 
Her  beauty,  her  fertility.     She  dreads 
An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  while  she  moves. 
Its  own  revolvency  upholds  the  world. 
Winds  from  all  quarters  agitate  the  air, 
And  fit  the  limpid  element  for  use, 
Else  noxious :  oceans,  rivers,  lakes,  and  streams, 
All  feel  the  freshening  impulse,  and  are  cleansed 
By  restless  undulution.     Even  the  oak 
Thrives  by  the  rude  concussion  of  the  storm  : 
He  seems  indeed  indignant,  and  to  feel 
The  impression  of  the  blast  with  proud  disdain, 
Frownii  g  as  if  in  his  unconscious  arm 
He  held  the  thunder.     But  the  monarch  owes 
His  firm  stability  to  what  he  scorns, 
More  fix'd  below,  the  more  disturbed  above. 
The  law,  by  which  all  creatures  else  are  bound, 
Binds  man,  the  lord  of  all.     Himself  derives 
No  mean  advantage  from  a  kindred  cause, 
From  strenuous  toil  his  hours  of  sweetest  ease. 
The  sedentary  stretch  their  lazy  length 
When  custom  bids,  but  no  refreshment  find, 
For  none  they  need :  the  languid  eye,  the  cheek 
Deserted  of  its  bloom,  the  flaccid,  shrunk, 
/And  wither'd  muscle,  and  the  vapid  soul, 

Reproach  their  owner  with  that  love  of  rest 
\    To  which  he  forfeits  even  the  rest  he  loves. 
Not  such  the  alert  and  active.    Measure  life 
By  its  true  worth,  the  comforts  it  affords, 
And  theirs  alone  seems  worthy  of  the  name. 
Good  health,  and  its  associate  in  the  most, 
Good  temper ;  spirits  prompt  to  undertake, 
And  not  soon  spent,  though  in.  an  arduous  task  ; 
The  powers  of  fancy  and  strong  thought  are  theirs ; 
Even  age  itself  seems  privileged  in  them 
y     With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects. 
A  sparkling  eye  beneath  a  wrinkled  front 
The  veteran  shows,  and  gracing  a  gray  beard 

/With  youthful  smiles,  descends  towards  the  grave 
Sprightly,  a.nd  old  almost,  without  decay . 

Like  a  coy  maiden.  Ease,  when  courted  most, 
Farthest  retires— an  idol,  at  whose  shrine 
Who  oftenest  sacrifice  are  favor'd  least. 
/        The  love  of  Nature,  and  the  scenes  she  draws, 

Is  Nature's  dictate.     Strange !  there  should  be  found, 


/ 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA.  25} 

Who,  self-imprison'd  in  their  proud  saloons, 
Renounce  the  odors  of  the  open  field 
For  the  unscented  fictions  of  the  loom ; 
vWho,  satisfied  with  only  pencill'd  seeiu-. 

/  Prefer  to  the  performance  of  a  God 

I  The  inferior  wonders  of  an  artist's  hand. 

\Lovely  indeed  the  mimic  works  of  Art. 

But  Nature's  works  far  lovelier.     I  admire, 
j)None  more  admires,  the  painter's  magic  skill, 
Who  shows  me  that  which  I  shall  never  see, 
Conveys  a  distant  country  into  mine, 
And  throws  Italian  light  on  English  walls : 
But  imitative  strokes  can  do  no  more 
Than  please  the  eye — sweet  Nature  every  sense, 
The  air  salubrious  of  her  lofty  hill-. 
The  cheering  fragrance  of  her  dewy  vales, 
And  music  of  her  woods — no  works  of  man 
May  rival  these  ;  thesa  all  bespeak  a  power 
Peculiar,  and  exclusively  her  own. 
Beneath  the  open  sky  she  spreads  the  feast ; 
'Tis  free  to  all — 'tis  every  day  renew* d  ; 
Who  scorns  it,  starves  deservedly  at  home. 
He  does  not  scorn  it,  who,  iniprison'd  long 
In  some  unwholesome  dungeon,  and  a  prey 
To  sallow  sickness,  which  the  vapors  dank 
And  clammy  of  his  dark  abode  have  bred, 
Escapes  at  last  to  liberty  and  light  : 
His  cheek  recovers  soon  its  healthful  hue, 
His  eye  relumines  its  extinguished  fires, 
He  walks,  he  leaps, Jie  runs— i>  wiiiir'd  with  joy. 
And  rirttspfrrfhp  gyrate  rfi  pypry  breezg. 

He  does  not  scorn  it,  who  has  long  endure 

A  fever's  agonies,  and  fed  on  drugs. 

Not  yet  the  mariner,  his  blood  inflamed 

With  acrid  salts  ;  his  very  heart  athirst 

To  gaze  at  Nature  in  her  green  array, 

Upon  the  ship's  tall  side  he  stands,  possess'd 

With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire : 

Fair  fields  'appear  below,  such  as  he  left 

Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find, —  j 

He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more.*  J  &>* 

The  spleen  is  seldom  felt  where  Flora  reigns  ;     t-y^ 
The  lowering  eye,  the  petulance,  the  frown, 
And  sullen  sadness,  that  o'ershade,  distort, 

*  These  lines  refer  to  a  singular  hallucination  to  which  seamen  were  subject  when 
suffering  from  scurvy.    It  is  called  a  calenture. 


258  THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 

And  mar  the  face  of  beauty,  when  no  cause 

For  such  immeasurable  woe  appears, 

These  Flora  banishes,  and  gives  the  fair 

Sweet  smiles,  and  bloom  less  transient  than  her  own. 

_  It  is  the  constant  revolution,  stale 
And  tasteless,  of  the  same  repeated  joys, 
That  palls  and  satiates,  and  makes  languid  life 
A  pedler's  pack,  that  bows  the  bearer  down. 
Health  suffers,  and  the  spirits  ebb ;  the  heart 
Recoils  from  its  own  choice — at  the  full  feast 
Is  famish' d — finds  no  music  in  the  song, 
No  smartness  in  the  jest,  and  wonders  why. 
Yet  thousands  still  desire  to  journey  on, 
Though  halt,  and  weary  of  the  path  they  tread. 
The  paralytic  who  can  hold  her  cards 
But  cannot  play  them,  borrows  a  friend's  hand 
To  deal  and  shuffle,  to  divide  and  sort 
Her  mingled  suits  and  sequences,  and  sits 
Spectatress  both  and  spectacle,  a  sad 
And  silent  cypher,  while  her  proxy  plays. 
Others  are  dragg'd  into  the  crowded  room 
Between  supporters ;  and,  once  seated,  sit 
Through  downright  inability  to  rise, 
Till  the  stout  bearers  lift  the  corpse  again. 
These  speak  a  loud  memento.     Yet  even  these 
Themselves  love  life,  and  cling  to  it,  as  he 
That  overhangs  a  torrent,  to  a  twig. 
They  love  it,  and  yet  loathe  it ;  fear  to  die, 
Yet  scorn  the  purposes  for  which  they  live. 

p  Then  wherefore  not  renounce  them  ?    No — the  dread, 
/    I  The  slavish  dread  of  solitude,  that  breeds 
v     /    Reflection  and  remorse,  the  fear  of  shame, 
V  And  their  inveterate  habits,  all  forbid. 

Whom  call  we  gay  ?    That  honor  has  been  long 
/*  The  boast  of  mere  pretenders  to  the  name. 
/     The  innocent,  are  gav — the  lark  is  ga.v. 
/      That  dries  his  feathers  saturate  with  dew 

_.  Beneath  the  rosy  cloud,  while  yet  the  beams 
Of  dayspring  overshoot  his  humble  nest. 
The  peasant  too,  a  witness  of  his  song, 
Himself  a  songster,  is  as  gay  as  he. 
But  save  me  from  the  gayety  of  those 
Whose  headaches  nail  them  to  a  noonday  bed : 
And  save  me  too  from  theirs  whose  haggard  eyes 
Flash  desperation,  and  betray  their  pangs 
For  property  stripp'd  off  by  cruel  chance  ; 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA.  259 

From  gayety  that  fills  the  bones  with  pain, 
Ttie  mouth  with  blasphemy,  the  heart  with  woe. 
The  earth  was  made  so  various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change, 
And  pleased  with  novelty,  might  be  indulged^ 
Prospects,  however  lovely,  may  be  seen 
Till  half  their  beauties  fade  ;  the  weary  sight, 
Too  well  acquainted  with  their  smiles,  slides  off 
Fastidious,  seeking  less  familiar  scenes. 
Then  snug  enclosures  in  the  shelter'd  vale, 
Where  frequent  hedges  intercept  the  eye, 
Delight  us,  happy  to  renounce  awhile, 
Not  senseless  of  its  charms,  what  still  we  love, 
That  such  short  absence  may  endear  it  more. 
Then  forests,  or  the  savage  rock,  may  please, 
That  hides  the  sea-mew  in  his  hollow  clefts 
Above  the  reach  of  man  :  his  hoary  head, 
Conspicuous  many  a  league,  the  mariner 
Bound  homeward,  and  in  hope  already  there, 
Greets  with  three  cheers  exulting.     At  his  waist 
A  girdle  of  half-wither  d  shrubs  he  shows, 
And  at  his  feet  the  battled  billows  die. 
The  common,  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 
With  prickly  gorse,  that,  shapeless  and  deform'd 
And  dangerous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom, 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold, 
Yields  no  unpleusing  ramble  ;  there  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odoriferous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets. 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better  days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimm'd 
With  lace,  arid  hat  with  splendid  ribbon  bound. 
A  serving-maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and  died. 
Her  fancy  follow'd  him  through  foaming  waves 
To  distant  shores,  and  she  would  sit  and  weep 
At  what  a  sailor  suffers  ;  fancy  too, 
Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are, 
Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 
And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to  know. 
She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death, 
And  never  smiled  again.     And  now  she  roams 
The  dreary  waste ;  there  spends  the  livelong  day, 
And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids, 
The  livelong  night.    A  tatter'd  apron  hides, 


26o 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 


V 


Worn  as  a  cloak,  and  hardly  hides  a  gown 

More  tatter'd  still ;  and  both  but  ill  conceal 

A  bosom  heaved  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 

She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 

And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve  j  but  needful  food, 

Though  press' d  with  hunger  oft,  or  comelier  clothes, 

Though  pinch'd  with  cold,  asks  never.     Kate  is  crazed.* 

I  see  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild. 
A  vagabond  ajid  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Tlieir  miserable  mealT    A  kettle,  slung 
Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 
Receives  the  morsel  j  flesh  obscene  of  dog, 
Or  vermin,  or,  at  best,  of  cock  purloin'd 
From  his  accustom'd  perch.    Hard-faring  race ! 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge, 
Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves  just  saves  unquench'd 
The  spark  of  life.     The  sportive  wind  blows  wide 
Their  fluttering  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny  skin, 
The  veil n Tn  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 
Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and  more 
To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place  ; 
Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they  steal. 
Strange  !  that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 
In  human  mould,  should  brutalize  by  choice 
His  nature,  and,  though  capable  of  arts 
By  which  the  world  might  profit  and  himself 
Self-banish'd  from  society,  prefer 
Such  squalid  sloth  to  honorable  toil ! 
Yet  even  these,  though  feigning  sickness  oft, 
They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limping  limb, 
And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 
Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful  note 


When  safe  occasion  offers ;  and  with  dance 

And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag, 

Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods  resound. 

Such  health  and  gayety  of  heart  enjoy 

The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world  ; 

And  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wandering  much, 

Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  the  effects 

Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold. 

Blest  he,  though  undistinguish'd  from  the 
By  wealth  or  dignity,  who  dwells  secure 


*  "  Kate  "  was  a  real  personage,  well  known  to  the  poet. 


THE  TASK.—  THE  SOFA.  261 


Where  man,  by  nature  fierce,  has  laid  aside 

His  fierceness,  having  learnt,  though  slow  to  learn, 

The  manners  and  the  arts  of  civil  life. 

His  wants,  indeed,  are  many  ;  but  supply 

Is  obvious  ;  placed  within  the  easy  reach 

Of  temperate  wishes  and  industrious  hands. 

Hej*e  virtue  thrives  as  in  her  proper  soil  j 

Not  rude  and  rilll'ly,  aiid  beset  \\uli  I  horns 

And  terrible  to  sight,  as  when  she  springs, 

(If  e'er  she  spring  spontaneous)  in  remote 

And  barbarous  climes,  where  violence  prevails, 

And  strength  is  lord  of  all  ;  but  gentle,  kind, 

By  culture  tamed,  by  liberty  refresh/  d. 

And  all  her  fruits  by  radiant  truth  matured. 

War  and  the  chase  engross  the  savage  whole: 

War  follow'd  for  re  ven;  -.  or  to  supplant 

The  envied  tenant;-  of  some  happier  spot  ; 

The  chase  for  sustenance,  precarious  trust  ! 

His  bartl  condition  with  severe  constraint 

Kinds  all  his  faculties,  forbids  all  growth 

Of  wisdom,  proves  a  school  in  which  he  learns 

Sly  circumvention,  unrelenting  hate, 

Meajj_self-attachmeiit,  andj?cji  n-e  augkt-beside. 

TfiusTare  "the  shivering  natives  of  the  north, 

And  thus  the  rangers  of  the  western  world, 

Where  it  advances  fur  into  the  deep, 

Towards  the  Antarctic.      Kvcn  the  favor'd  isles, 

So  lately  found,  *  although  the  constant  sun 

Cheer  all  their  seasons  with  a  grateful  smile, 

Can  boast  but  little  virtue  ;   and  inert 

Through  plenty,  lose  in  morals  what  they  gain 

In  manners  —  victims  of  luxurious  ease. 

These  therefore  I  can  pity,  placed  remote 

From  all  that  science  traces,  art  invents, 

Or  inspiration  teaches  ;  and  enclosed 

In  boundless  oceans,  never  to  be  pass'd 

By  navigators  uniform'd  as  they, 

Or  ploughed  perhaps  by  British'  bark  again. 

But  far  beyond  the  rest,  and  with  most  cause,       j 

Thee,  gentle  savage  !  f  whom  no  love  of  thee      \j 

Or  thine,  but  curiosity  perhaps, 

Or  else  vain-glory,  prompted  us  to  draw 

Forth  from  thy  native  bowers,  to  show  thee  here 


*The  Society  and  Friendly  Islands. 

t  Omai,  interpreter  to  Captain  Cook  in  his  third  voyage. 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 


With  what  superior  skill  we  can  abuse 

The  gifts  of  Providence,  and  squander  life. 

The  dream  is  past ;  and  thou  hast  found  again 

Thy  cocoas  and  bananas,  palms  and  yams, 

And  homestall  thatch 'd  with  leaves.     But  hast  thou  found 

Their  former  charms  ?     And  having  seen  our  state, 

Our  palaces,  our  ladies,  and  our  pomp 

Of  equipage,  our  gardens,  and  our  sports, 

And  heard  our  music  ;  are  thy  simple  friends 

Thy  simple  fare,  arid  all  thy  plain  delights 

As  dear  to  thee  as  once  ?     And  have  thy  joys 

Lost  nothing  by  comparison  with  ours  ? 

Rude  as  thou  art,  (for  we  return' d  thee  rude 

Arid  ignore  t..  ?£f'ept  of  outward  show,) 

I  cannot  think  thee  yet  so  dull  of  heart 

And  spiritless,  as  never  to  regret 

Sweets  tasted  here,  and  left  as  soon  as  known. 

Methinks  1  see  thee  straying  on  the  .Veach, 

And  asking  of  the  surge  that  bathes  thy  ,V  Jt 

If  ever  it  has  wash'd  our  distant  shore. 

I  see  thee  weep,  and  thine  are  honest  tears, 

A  patriot's  for  his  country  :  thou  art  sad 

At  thought  of  her  forlorn  and  abject  state, 

From  which  no  power  of  thine  can  raise  her  up. 

Thus  fancy  paints  thee,  and,  though  apt  to  err, 
*''  Perhaps  errs  little  when  she  paints  thee  thus. 
y      She  tells  me  too,  that  duly  every  morn 

Thou  cliuib'st  the  mountain  top,  with  eager  eye 
/   Exploring  far  and  wide  the  watery  waste 

For  sight  of  ship  from  England.     Every  speck 

Seen  in  the  dim  horizon,  turns  thee  pale 

With  conflict  of  contending  hopes  and  fears 

But  conies  at  last  the  dull  and  dusky  eve, 

And  sends  thee  to  thy  cabin,  well  prepared 

To  dream  all  night  of  what  the  day  denied 

Alas  !  expect  it  not.     We  found  no  bait 

To  tempt  us  in  thy  country.     Doing  good, 

Disinterested  good,  is  not  our  trade. 

We  travel  far,  'tis  true,  but  not  for  nought ; 

And  must  be  bribed  to  compass  earth  again 

By  other  hopes  and  richer  fruits  than  yours. 

But  though  true  worth  and  virtue,  in  the  mild 
*/  (    And  genial  soil  of  cultivated  life 

\    Thrive  most,  and  may  perhaps  thrive  only  there, 
)    Yet  not  in  cities  oft :  in  proud  and  gay 

And  gain-devoted  cities.     Thither  flow, 


THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA.  263 

As  to  a  common  and  most  noisome  sewer, 

The  dregs  and  feculence  of  every  land. 

In  cities  foul  example  on  most  minds 

Begets  its  likeness.     Rank  abundance  breeds 

In  gross  and  pamper'd  cities  sloth  and  lust, 

And  wantonness  and  gluttonous  excess. 

In  cities,  vice  is  hidden  with  most  ease, 

Or  seen  with  least  reproach  ;  and  virtue,  taught 

By  frequent  lapse,  can  hope  no  triumph  there 

Beyond  the  achievement  of  successful  flight. 

I  do  confess  them  nurseries  of  the  arts, 

In  which  they  flourish  most ;  where,  in  the  beams 

Of  warm  encouragement,  and  in  the  eye 

Of  public  note,  they  reach  their  perfect  size. 

Such  London  is,  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaim'd 

The  fairest  capital  of  all  the  world, 

By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst. 

There,  touch'd  by  Reynolds,  a  dull  blank  becomes 

A  lucid  mirror,  in  which  Nature  sees 

All  her  reflected  features.     Bacon  there 

Gives  more  than  female  beauty  to  a  stone, 

And  Chatham's  eloquence  to  marble  lips. 

Nor  does  the  chisel  occupy  alone 

The  powers  of  sculpture,  but  the  style  as  much  ; 

Each  province  of  her  art  her  equal  care. 

With  nice  incision  of  her  guided  steel 

She  ploughs  a  brazen  field?  and  clothes  a  soil 

So  sterile,  with  what  charms  soe'er  she  will, 

The  richest  scenery  and  the  loveliest  forms. 

Where  finds  Philosophy  her  eagle  eye, 

With  which  she  gazes  at  yon  burning  disk 

Undazzled,  and  detects  and  counts  his  spots  ? 

In  London.     Where  her  implements  exact, 

With  which  she  calculates,  computes,  and  scans 

All  distance,  motion,  magnitude,  and  now 

Measures  an  atom,  and  now  girds  a  world  ? 

In  London.     Where  has  commerce  such  a  mart, 

So  rich,  so  throng'd,  so  drain'd,  arid  so  supplied 

As  London,  opulent,  enlarged,  and  still 

Increasing  London  ?     Babylon  of  old 

Not  more  the  glory  of  the  earth  than  she, 

A  more  accomplish'd  world's  chief  glory  now. 

She  has  her  praise.     Now  mark  a  spot  or  two 
That  so  much  beauty  would  do  well  to  purge  ;       ».  / 
And  show  this  queen  of  cities,  that  so  fair  V 

May  yet  be  foul,  so  witty,  yet  not  wise. 


264  THE  TASK.— THE  SOFA. 

It  is  not  seemly,  nor  of  good  report, 

That  she  is  slack  in  discipline  ;  more  prompt 

To  avenge  than  to  prevent  the  breach  of  law ; 

That  she  is  rigid  in  denouncing  death 

On  petty  robbers,  and  indulges  life 

And  liberty,  arid  ofttimes  honor  too, 

To  peculators  of  the  public  gold ; 

That  thieves  at  home  must  hang,  but  he,  that  puts 

Into  his  overgorged  and  bloated  purse 

The  wealth  of  Indian  provinces,  escapes. 

Nor  is  it  well,  nor  can  it  come  to  good, 

That,  through  profane  and  infidel  contempt 

Of  holy  writ,  she  has  presumed  to  annul 

And  abrogate,  as  roundly  as  she  may, 

The  total  ordinance  and  will  of  God ; 

Advancing  Fashion  to  the  post  of  Truth, 

And  centering  all  authority  in  modes 

And  customs  of  her  own,  till  Sabbath  rites 

Have  dwindled  into  unrespected  forms, 

/nd  knees  and  hassocks  are  well  nigh  divorced . 
•God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town 
What  wonder  then,  that  health  and  virtue,  gifts 
That  can  alone  make  sweet  the  bitter  draught 
holdsjout  to  all,  should  most  abound 
And  least~T>e  threaten' d  in  the  fields  arid  groves  ? 
Possess  ye  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about  ( 

In  chariots  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue 
But  that  of  idleness,  and  taste  no  scenes 
But  such  as  art  contrives,  possess  ye  still 
Your  element ;  there  only  ye  can  shine, 
There  only  minds  like  yours  can  do  no  harm. 
Our  groves  were  planted  to  console  at  noon 
The  pensive  wanderer  in  their  shades.     At  eve 
The  moonbeam,  sliding  softly  in  between 
The  sleeping  leaves,  is  all  the  light  they  wish, 
Birds  warbling  all  the  music.     We  can  spare 
The. splendor  of  your  lamps,  they  but  eclipse 
Our  softer  satellite.     Your  songs  confound 
Our  more  harmonious  notes  :  the  thrush  departs 
Scared,  and  the  offended  nightingale  is  mute. 
There  is  a  public  mischief  in  your  mirth  ; 
It  plagues  your  country.     Folly  such  as  yours, 
Graced  with  a  sword,  and  worthier  of  a  fan, 
Has  made,  what  enemies  could  ne'er  have  done, 
Our  arch  of  empire,  steadfast  but  for  you, 
A  mutilated  structure,  soon  to  fall. 


THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE.  265 


BOOK  IL— THE  TIME-PIECE. 

ARGUMENT. 

ieflections  suggested  by  the  conclusion  of  the  former  book— Peace  among  the  nations 
recommended  on  the  ground  of  their  common  fellowship  in  sorrow— Prodigies  enu- 
merated— Sicilian  earthquakes — Man  rendered  obnoxious  to  these  calamities  by  sin 
—God  the  agent  in  them-The  philosophy  that  stops  at  secondary  causes  reproved 
—Our  own  late  miscarriages  accounted  for-4-Satirical  notice  taken  of  our  trips  t«> 
Foil tainMeau— But  the  pulpit,  not  satire,  the  proper  engine  of  reformation— '.,  he 
reverend  advertiser  of  engraved  sermons — Petit-niaitre  parson — The  good  preacher 
—Picture  of  a  theatrical  clerical  coxcomb — Story-tellers  and  jesters  in  the  pulpit 
reproved— Apostrophe  to  popular  applause — Retailers  of  ancient  philosophy  expos- 
tulated with— Sum  of  the  whole  matter — Effects  of  sacerdotal  mismanagement  on 
the  laity— Their  folly  and  extravagance— The  mischiefs  of  profusion— Profusion  it- 
self, with  all  its  consequent  evils,  ascribed,  as  to  its  principal  cause,  to  the  want  ol 
discipline  in  the  universities. 

OH  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit,  » 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more  !     My  ear  is.pain'd* 
My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outra-v  with  which  earth  is  fill'd. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  umn's  obdurate  heart- 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;   the  natqral  born 
Of  brotherhood  is  sever 'd  as  the  flax 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  jpf  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  «.  skin 
Not  eolor'd  like  his  own*  and  having  power 
To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed, 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  fcindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys ; 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 

frmlpftt.  hint. 


Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
"With  stripes,  that  Mercy  with  a  bleeding  heart 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  ?     Arid  what  man  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 


THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 


I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 

jsinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd. 

Hear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heari's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home.     Then  why  abroad  ? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  *  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free, 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles,  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of  all  your  empire  ;  that  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 
Sure  there  is  need  of  social  intercourse, 
Benevolence,  and  peace,  arid  mutual  aid, 
Between  the  nations,  in  a  world  that  seems 
To  toll  the  death-bell  of  its  own  decease, 
And  by  the  voice  of  all  its  elements 
To  preach  the  general  doom.     When  were  the  winds 
Let  slip  with  such  a  warrant  to  destroy  ? 
When  did  the  waves  so  haughtily  o'erleap 
Theip  ancient  barriers,  deluging  the  dry  ? 
Fires,  from  beneath,  and  meteors  from  above, 
Portentous,  unexampled,  unexplain'd 
1^0      Have  kindled  beacons  in  the  skies,  and  the  old 

And  jcrazy  earth  has  had  her  shaking  fits 
V*  2       More-frequent,  and  foregone  her  usual  rest. 
Is- it  a  time  to  wrangle,  when  the  props 
Andjpillars  of  our  planet  seem  to  fail, 
/         And  .Nature  with^a  dim  ajid  sickly  eye 

To  wait  the  close  of  all  ?     But  grant  her  end 
More-  distant,  and  that  prophecy  demands 
A  longer  respite  unaccomplished  yet ; 
'Still  they  are  frowning  signals,  arid  bespeak 
a  Pispleasure  in  His  breast  who  smites  the  earth 
£)r  heals  it,  makes  it  languish  or  rejoice. 
,And  'tis  but  seemly  that,  where  all  deserve 

s'tand  exposed  by  common  peccancy 


*  This  decision  was  given  in  the  case  of  Somerset,  a  negro,  in  1772.    Dr.  Johnson 
teak  a  humane  interest  in  him.  » 


* 


THE  TASK,—  THE  TIME-PIECE.  267 

To  what  no  few  have  felt,  there  should  be  peace, 

And  brethren  in  calamity  should  love. 
Alas  for  Sicily  !  *  rude  fragments  now 

Lie  scatter'd  where  the  shapely  column  stood. 

Her  palaces  are  dust.     In  all  her  streets 

The  voice  of  sinking  and  the  sprightly  chord 

Are  silent.     Revelry  and  dance  and  show 

Suffer  a  syncope  and  solemn  pause, 

While  God  performs  upon  the  trembling  stage 

Of  His  own  works  His  dreadful  part  alone 

How  doth  the  earth  receive  him  ?  —  With  what  signs 

Of  gratulation  and  delight,  her  King? 

Pours  she  not  all  her  choicest  fruits  abroad, 

Her  sweetest  flowers,  her  aromatic  gums, 

Disclosing  Paradise  where'er  He  treads  ? 

She  quakes  at  His  approach.     Her  hollow  womb 

Conceiving  thunders,  through  a  thousand  deeps 

And  fiery  caverns  roars  beneath  His  foot. 

The  hills  move  lightly,  and  the  mountains  smoke. 
,   For  He  has  touch'd  them.     From  the  extremest  point 
i  /Of  elevation  down  into  the  abyss, 
[  His  wrath  is  busy  and  His  frown  is  felt. 
x/V.The  rocks  fall  headlong  and  the  valleys  rise, 
•/The  rivers  die  into  offensive  pools, 
SAnd,  charged  with  putrid  verdure,  breathe  a  gross 
^And  mortal  nuisance  into  all  the  air. 
/What  solid  was,  by  transformation  strange 
\Grows  fluid,  and  the  fix'd  and  rooted  earth, 
(Tormented  into  billows,  heaves  and  swells, 
\Or  with  vertiginous  and  hideous  whirl 
(Sucks  down  its  prey  insatiable.     Immense 

The  tumult  and  the  overthrow,  the  pangs 

And  agonies  of  human  and  of  brute 

Multitudes,  fugitive  on  every  side, 

And  fugitive  in  vain.     The  sylvan  scene 

Migrates  uplifted,  and  with  all  its  soil 

Alighting  in  far-distant  fields,  finds  out 

A  new  possessor,  and  survives  the  change. 

Ocean  has  caught  the  frenzy,  and  upwrought 

To  an  enormous  and  o'erbearing  height, 

Not  by  a  mighty  wind,  but  by  that  voice 

Which  winds  and  waves  obey,  invades  the  shore 

Resistless.     Never  such  a  sudden  flood, 

Upridged  so  high,  and  sent  on  such  a  charge, 

*  Frightful  earthquakes  took  place  in  Sicily  in  1783. 


268  THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 


Possess'd  an  inland  scene.     Where  now  the  throng 
That  press'd  the  beach,  and  hasty  to  depart 
Look'd  to  the  sea  for  safety  ?    They  are  gone, 
Gone  with  the  refluent  wave  into  the  deep- 
A  prince  with  half  his  people  !  *    Ancient  towers, 
And  roofs  embattled  high,  the  gloomy  scenes 
Where  beauty  oft  and  letter'd  worth  consume 
Life  in  the  unproductive  shades  of  death, 
Fall  prone ;  the  pale  inhabitants  come  forth, 
And,  happy  in  their  unforeseen  release 

\J  From  all  the  rigors  of  restraint,  enjoy 
The  terrors  of  the  day  that  sets  them  free. 
Who  then  that  has  thee,  would  not  hold  thee  fast, 
Freedom !  whom  they  that  lose  thee,  so  regret, 
That  even  a  judgment  making  way  for  thee, 
Seems  in  their  eyes,  a  mercy  for  thy  sake. 

Such  evil  sin  hath  wrought ;  and  such  a  flame 
Kindled  in  heaven,  that  it  bums  down  to  earth, 
And  in  the  furious  inquest  that  it  makes 
On  God's  behalf,  lays  waste  His  fairest  works. 

J  Th«  y_ejryjelemenj:s^  .though  each  be  meant 
The  minister  of  man,  to  serve  his  wants, 

1   Conspire  against  him.     With  his  breath,  he  draws 
•  A  plague  into  his  blood  ;  and  cannot  use 
Life's  necessary  means,  but  he  must  die. 
Storms  rise  to  o'erwhelm  him :  or  if  stormy  winds 
Rise  not,  the  waters  of  the  deep  shall  rise, 
And  needing  none  assistance  of  the  storm, 
Shall  roll  themselves  ashore,  and  reach  him  there. 
The  earth  shall  shake  him  out  of  all  his  holds, 
Or  make  his  house  his  grave :  nor  so  content, 
Shall  counterfeit  the  motions  of  the  flood, 
And  drown  him  in  her  dry  and  dusty  gulfs. 
What  then — were  they  the  wicked  above  all, 
And  we  the  righteous,  whose  fast-anchor' d  isle 
Moved  not,  while  theirs  was  rock'd  like  a  light  skiff. 
The  sport  of  every  wave  ?     No :  none  are  clear, 
And  none  than  we  more  guilty.     But  where  all 
Stand  chargeable  with  guilt,  and  to  the  shafts 
Of  wrath  obnoxious,  God  may  choose  His  mark. 
May  punish,  if  He  please,  the  less,  to  warn 
The  more  malignant.     If  He  spared  not  them, 
Tremble  and  be  amazed  at  thine  escape, 

*  Numbers  perished  at  Scylla ;  the  Prince  persuaded  a  great  number  of  the  sur- 
vivors to  put  to  sea  for  safety  ;  but  the  waves  rose  with  great  fury,  and  all  in  the  boat* 
perished  with  their  Prince.— See  LyelPs  "Principles  of  Geology,"  p.  488,  ed.  1853. 


V 


THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE.  269 

Far  guiltier  England  !  lest  He  spare  not  thee. 

Happy  the  man  who  sees  a  God  employ'd 
In  all  the  good  and  ill  that  checker  life  ! 
Resolving  all  events,  with  their  effects 
And  manifold  results,  into  the  will 
And  arbitration  wise  of  the  Supreme. 
Did  not  His  eye  rule  all  things,  and  intend 
The  least  of  our  concerns,  (since  from  the  least 
The  greatest  oft  originate,)  could  chance 
Find  place  in  His  dominion,  or  dispose 
One  lawless  particle  to  thwart  llis  plan, 
Then  God  might  be  surprised,  and  unforeseen 
Contingence  might  alarm  Him,  and  disturb 
The  smooth  and  equal  course  of  His  affairs,      t 
This  truth  Philosophy,  though  eagle-eyed 
In  nature's  tendencies,  oft  overlooks,  )   V 

And,  having  found  His  instrument,  forgets 
Or  disregards,  or  more  presumptuous  still, 
Denies  the  power  that  wills  it.     (i<»d  proclaims 
His  hot  displeasure  a^ains;-  foolish  men 
That  live  an  atheist  life  :  involves  the  heaven 
In  tempests,  quits  his  grasp  upon  the  winds, 
And  gives  them  all  their  fury  :  bids  a  plague 
Kindle  a  fiery  boil  upon  the  skin, 
And  putrefy  the  breath  of  blooming  health. 
He  calls  for  Famine,  and  the  meagre  fiend 
Blows  mildew  from  between  his  shrivell'd  lips, 
And  taints  the  golden  ear.     He  springs  His  mines, 
And  desolates  a  nation  at  a  blast. 
Forth  steps  the  spruce  philosopher,  and  tells      \  J 
Of  homogeneal  and  discordant  springs  /  " 


And  principles  ;  of  causes,  how  they  work 
By  necessary  laws  their  sure  effects  ; 
Of  action  and  reaction.     He  has  found 
The  source  of  the  disease  that  nature  feels, 
And  bids  the  world  take  heart  and  banish  fear. 
Thou  fool !  will  thy  discovery  of  the  cause 
Suspend  the  effect,  or  heal  it  ?    Has  not  God 
Still  wrought  by  means  since  first  He  made  the 
And  did  He  not  of  old  employ  His  means 
To  drown  it  ?     What  is  His  creation  less 
Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means 
Forui'd  for  His  use,  arid  ready  at  His  will  ? 
Go,  dress  thine  eyes  with  eye-salve,  ask  of  Him, 
Or  ask  of  whomsoever  He  has  taught, 
And  learn,  though  late,  the  genuine  cause  of  all. 


270 


THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 


England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still, 
My  country  !  and  while  yet  a  nook  is  left 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrain'd  to  love  thee.     Though  thy  clime 
Be  fickle,  and  thy  year,  most  part  deform'd 
Witl^  dripping  j»ams,  f>r  wither'd  by  a  frost, 
I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies 
And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  warmer  France 
With  all  her  viffes  *  nor  for  Ausonia's-grW-es 
Of  golden  fruitage  and  her  myrtle  bowers. 
To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 
Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 
Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task  ; 
But  I- can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 
Thy  joys  and  sorrows  with  as  true  a  heart 
As  any  thunderer  there.     And  I  can  feel 
»          Thy  follies  too,  and  with  a  just  disdain 
]/      \  Frown  at  effeminates,  whose  very  looks 
Reflect  dishonor  on  the  land  I  love. 
How,  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense, 
Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as  smooth 
And  tender  as  a  girl,  all-essenced  o'er 
With  odors,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet, 
Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 
And  love  when  they  should  fight ;  when  such  as  these 
Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark 
Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause  ? 
Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 
In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might, 
That  we  were  born  her  children  ;  praise  enough 
To  fill  the  ambition  of  a  private  man, 
That  Chatham's  language  was  his  mother-tongue, 
And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 
Farewell  those  honors,  and  farewell  with  them 
The  hope  of  such  hereafter.     They  have  fallen 
Each  in  his  field  of  glory  :  one  in  arms, 
And  one  in  council — Wolfe  upon  the  lap 
Of  smiling  Victory  that  moment  won, 
And  Chatham,  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame  ! 
They  made  us  many  soldiers.     Chatham  still 
Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home, 
Secured  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown 
If  any  wrong'd  her.     Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought, 
Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act, 
That  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force, 
And  all  were  swift  to  follow  whom  all  loved. 


THE  TASK,— THE  TIME-PIECE. 


271 


Those  suns  are  set.     Oh,  j-ise  some  other  such  ! 
Or  all  that  we  have  left.S's  cnnpty  talk       * 

Now  hoist  the  sail,  and  let  the  streamers  float 
Upon  the  wanton  breezes.     Strew  the  deck 
With  lavender,  and  sprinkle  liquid  sweets, 
That  no  rude  savor  maritime  invade 
The  nose  of  nice  nobility.     Breathe  soft 
Ye  clarionets,  and  softer  still  ye  flutes, 
That  winds  and  waters  lull'd  by  magic  sounds 
May  bear  us  smoothly  to  the  Gallic  shore. 
True,  we  have  lost  an  empire — let  it  pass. 
True,  we  may  thank  the  perfidy  of  France 
That  pick'd  the  jewel  out  of  England's  crown, 
With  all  the  cunning  of  an  envious  shrew. 
And  let  that  pass, — 'twas  but  a  trick  of  state. 
A  brave  man  knows  no  malice,  but  at  once 
Forgets  in  peace  the  injuries  of  war, 
And  gives  his  direst  foe  a  friend's  embrace. 
And  shamed  as  we  have  been,  to  the  very  beard 
Braved  and  defied,  and  in  our  own  sea  proved 
Too  weak  for  those  decisive  blows  that  once 
Insured  us  mastery  there,  we  yet  retain 
Some  small  pre-eminence,  we  justly  boaet 
At  least  superior  jockeyship,  and  claim 
The  honors  oi  Tne  turf  as  all  our  own. 
Go  then,  well  worthy  of  the  praise  ye  seek, 
And  show  the  shame  ye  might  conceal  at  home, 
In  foreign  e^es  I — be  grooms  and  win  the  plate, 
Where  once  your  nobler  fathers  won  a  crownj— 
'Tis  generous  to  communicate  your  skill 
To  those  that  need  it.     Folly  is  soon  learn'd  : 
And,  under  such  preceptors,  who  can  fail ! 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 
Which  only  poets  know.     The  shifts  and  turns, 
The  expedients  and  inventions  multiform 
To  which  the  mind  resorts,  in  chase  of  terms 
Though  apt,  yet  coy,  and  difficult  to  win, — 
T'  arrest  the  fleeting  images  that  fill 
The  mirror  of  the  mind,  and  hold  them  fast, 
And  force  them  sit,  till  he  has  pencill'd  off 
A  faithful  likeness  of  the  forms  he  views  ; 
Then  to  dispose  his  copies  with  such  art 
That  each  may  find  its  most  propitious  light 
And  shine  by  situation,  hardly  less 
Than  by  the  labor  and  the  skill  it  cost, 


172  THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 


V 


Are  occupations  of  the  poet's  mind 
So  pleasing,  and  that  steal  away  the  thought 
With  such  address  from  themes  of  sad  import, 
That,  lost  in  his  own  musings,  happy  man! 
He  feels  the  anxieties  of  life,  denied 
"  Their  wonted  entertainment,  all  retire. 
Such  joys  has  he  that  sings.     But  >h !  not  such, 
Or  seldom  such,  the  hearers  of  his  song. 
Fastidious,  or  else  listless,  or  perhaps 
Aware  of  nothing  arduous  in  a  task 
They  never  undertook,  they  little  note 
His  dangers  or  escapes,  and  haply  find 
Their  least  amusement  where  he  found  the  most 
But  is  amusement  all  ?     Studious  of  song, 
And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 
I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 
Be  loudest  in  their  praise  who  do  no  more. 
Yet  what  can  satire,  whether  grave  or  gay  ? 
It  may  correct  a  foible,  may  chastise 
The  freaks  of  fashion,  regulate  the  dress, 
Retrench  a  sword-blade,  or  displace  a  patch  ; 
But  where  are  its  sublimer  trophies  found  ? 
What  vice  has  it  subdued  ?  whose  heart  reclaim'd 
By  rigor,  or  whom  laugh'd  into  reform  ? 
Alas  !  Leviathan  is  not  so  tamed  : 
Laugh'd  at,  he  laughs  again  ;  and,  stricken  hard, 
Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales, 
That  fear  no  discipline  of  human  hands. 

he  pulpit,  therefore,  (and  I  name  it  filFd 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I  touch  that  holy  thing  j) 
The  pulpit  (when  the  satirist  has  at  last, 
Strutting  and  vaporing  in  an  empty  school, 
Spent  all  his  force,  and  made  no  proselyte,) 
I  say  the  pulpit  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate,  peculiar  powers) 

Must  stand  acknowledged,  while  the  world  shall  stand. 
The  most  important  and  effectual  guard, 
Support,  and  ornament  of  virtue's  cause. 
There  stands  the  messenger  of  truth.     There  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies  ;  his  theme  divine, 
His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him,  the  violated  law  speaks  out 
Its  thunders,  and  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 
As  angels  use,  the  gospel  whispers  peace. 
He  'stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 


THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE.  273 

Reclaims  the  wanderer,  binds  the  broken  heart, 

And,  arin'd  himself  in  panoply  complete 

Of  heavenly  temper,  furnishes  with  arms 

Bright  as  his  own,  and  trains,  by  every  rule 

Of  holy  discipline,  to  glorious  war, 

The  sacramental  host  of  God's  elect. 

Are  all  such  teachers  ?  would  to  Heaven  all  were  ! 

But  hark,— the  Doctor's  voice  !  *— fast  wedged  between 

Two  empirics  he  stands,  and  with  swollen  cheeks 

Inspires  the  news,  his  trumpet.     Keener  far 

Than  all  invective  is  his  bold  harangue, 

While  through  that  public,  organ  of  report 

He  hails  the  clergy  ;  and  defying  shame, 

Announces  to  the  world  his  own  and  theirs. 

He  teaches  those  to  read,  whom  schools  dismiss'd, 

And  colleges,  untaught :  sells  accent,  tone, 

And  emphasis  in  score,  and  gives  to  prayer 

The  adagio  and  multitite  it  demands. 

He  grinds  divinity  of  other  days 

Down  into  modern  use  ;  transforms  old  print 

To  zigzag  manuscript,  and  cheats  the  eyes 

Of  gallery  critics  by  a  thousand  art-. 

Are  there  who  purchase  of  the  Doctor's  ware  ? 

Oh  name  it  not  in  Gath  ! — it  cannot  be. 

That  grave  and  learned  clei  k>  should  need  such  aid. 

He  doubtl^s  is  in  sport,  and  does  hut  droll, 

Assuming  thus  a  rank  unknown  before — 

and  caterer  and  drynurse  of  the  Church. 

I  venerate  the  man  whose  heart  is  warm. 
Whose  hands  are  pure,  whose  doctrine  and  whose  life 
Coincident,  exhibit  lucid  proof 
That  he  is  honest  in  the  sacred  cause. 
To  such  I  render  more  than  mere  respect, 
Whose  actions  say  that  they  respect  themselves. 
But  loose  in  morals  and  in  manners  vain, 
In  conversation  frivolous,  in  dress 
Extreme,  at  once  rapacious  and  profuse, 
Frequent  in  park,  with  lady  at  his  side, 
Ambling  and  prattling  scandal  as  he  goes, 
But  rare  at  home,  and  never  at  his  books, 
Or  with  his  pen,  save  when  he  scrawls  a  card  ; 
Constant  at  ro-  \»,  familiar  with  a  round 
Of  ladyships,  a  stranger  to  the  poor  \ 

*Dr.  Trusler,  who  first  abridged  and  wrote  sermons  for  sale.    He  compiled  and 
abridged  many  works,  and  was  well  known  at  that  time  as  a  teacher  of  elocution. 

18 


274  T&£  TASK. --THE  TIME-PIECE. 

Ambitious  of  preferment  for  its  gold, 

And  well  prepared  by  ignorance  and  sloth, 

By  infidelity  and  love  of  the  world, 

To  make  God's  work  a  sinecure ;  a  slave 

To  his  own  pleasures  and  his  patron's  pride  : — 

From  such  apostles,  O  ye  mitred  heads, 

Preserve  the  Church  !  and  lay  not  careless  hands 

On  skulls  that  cannot  teach,  and  will  not  learn. 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher,  such  as  Paul, 
Were  he  on  earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own, 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.     I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 
I  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere  ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt ;  in  language  plain, 
Arid  plain  in  manner  ;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 
And  natural  in  gesture ;   much  impress'd 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too  ;  affectionate  in  look, 
And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 
A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 
Behold  the  picture  1     Is  it  like  ? — Like  whom  ? 
The  things  that  mount  the  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again  ;  pronounce  a  text, 
Cry  hem !  and  reading  what  they  never  wrote, 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work, 
And  with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene. 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 
And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 
And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 
All  affectation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn  ; 
Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 
What ! — will  a  man  play  tricks,  while  he  indulge 
A  silly  fond  conceit  of  his  fair  form 
And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 
And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  ? 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 
As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand, 
And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes 
When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life  ? 
He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth, 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 
Therefore  avaunt  all  attitude  and  stare, 
And  start  theatric,  practised  at  the  glass. 
I  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him 


THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE.  275 

Who  handles  things  divine  ;  and  all  beside, 

Though  learn'd  with  labor,  and  though  much  admired 

By  curious  eyes  arid  judgments  ill  inform'd, 

To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 

Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men, 

Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 

Through  the  press'd  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 

Some,  decent  in  demeanor  while  they  preach, 

That  task  performed,  relapse  into  themselves, 

And  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 

Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  every  eye — 

Whoe'er  was  edified,  themselves  were  not. 

Forth  comes  the  pocket  mirror.     First  we  stroke 

An  eyebrow  ;  next,  compose  a  straggling  lock  ; 

Then  with  an  air,  most  gracefully  perform'd, 

Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm, 

And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 

With  handkerchief  in  hand,  depending  low. 

The  better  hand  more  busy,  gives  the  nose 

Its  bergamot,  or  aids  the  indebted  eye 

With  opera-glass  to  watch  the  moving  scene 

And  recognize  the  slow-retiring  fair. 

Now  this  is  fulsome,  and  offends  me  more 

Than  in  a  Churchman  slovenly  neglect 

And  rustic  coarseness  would.     A  heavenly  mind 

May  be  indifferent  to  her  house  of  clay, 

And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care ; 

But  how  a  body  so  fantastic,  trim, 

And  quaint  in  its  deportment  and  attire, 

Can  lodge  a  heavenly  mind — demands  a  doubt. 

He  that  negotiates  between  God  and  man, 
As  God's  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 
Of  judgment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware 
Of  lightness  in  his  speech.     'Tis  pitiful 
To  court  a  grin,  when  you  should  woo  a  soul ; 
To  break  a  jest,  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetic  exhortation  ;  and  to  address 
The  skittish  fancy  and  facetious  tales, 
When  sent  with  God's  commission  to  the  heart. 
So  did  not  Paul.     Direct  me  to  a  quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote, 
And  1  consent  you  take  it  for  your  text, 
Your  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail. 
No  :  he  was  serious  in  a  serious  cause, 
And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms 
That  he  had  ta'en  in  charge.    He  would  not  stoop 


276  THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 

To  conquer  those  by  jocular  exploits, 
Whom  truth  and  soberness  assail'd  in  vain. 

Oh,  popular  applause  !  what  heart  of  man 
Is  proof  against  thy  sweet  seducing  charms  ? 
The  wisest  and  the  best  feel  urgent  need 
Of  all  their  caution  in  thy  gentlest  gales ; 
But  swell'd  into  a  gust — who  then,  alas  ! 
With  all  his  canvas  set,  and  inexpert, 
And  therefore  heedless,  can  withstand  thy  power  ? 
Praise  from  the  rivell'd  lips  of  toothless,  bald 
Decrepitude,  and  in  the  looks  of  lean 
And  craving  poverty,  and  in  the  bow 
Respectful  of  the  smutch'd  artificer, 
Is  oft  too  welcome,  and  may  much  disturb 
The  bias  of  the  purpose.    How  much  more 
Pourd  forth  by  beauty  splendid  and  polite, 
In  language  soft  as  adoration  breathes  ? 
Ah  spare  your  idol !  think  him  human  still ; 
Charms  he  may  have,  but  he  has  frailties  too  ; 
Dote  not  too  much,  nor  spoil  what  ye  admire. 

All  truth  is  from  the  sempiternal  source 
Of  light  divine.     But  Egypt,  Greece,  and  Rome, 
Drew  from  the  stream  below.     More  favor'd,  we 
Drink,  when  we  choose  it,  at  the  fountain-head. 
To  them  it  flow'd  much  mingled  and  denied 
With  hurtful  error,  prejudice,  and  dreams 
Illusive  of  philosophy,  so-call'd, 
But  falsely.     Sages  after  sages  strove 
In  vain  to  filter  off  a  crystal  draught 
Pure  from  the  lees,  which  often  more  enhanced 
The  thirst  than  slaked  it,  arid  not  seldom  bred 
Intoxication  and  delirium  wild. 
In  vain  they  push'd  inquiry  to  the  birth 
And  spring-time  of  the  world  ;  asked,  Whence  is  man  7 
Why  forrn'd  at  all  ?     Arid  wherefore  as  he  is  ? 
Where  must  he  find  his  Maker  ?     With  what  rites 
Adore  him  ?     Will  He  hear,  accept,  and  bless  ? 
Or  does  He  sit  regardless  of  His  works  V 
Has  man  within  him  an  immortal  seed  ? 
Or  does  the  tomb  take  all  ?     If  he  survive 
His  ashes,  where  ?  and  in  what  weal  or  woe  ? 
Knots  worthy  of  solution,  which  alone 
A  Deity  could  solve.     Their  answers  vague, 
And  all  at  random,  fabulous  and  dark, 
Left  them  as  dark  themselves.     Their  rules  of  life 
Defective  and  unsanction'd,  proved  too  weak 


THE  TASK.- -THE  TIME-PIECE.  277 

To  bind  the  roving  appetite,  and  lead 

Blind  Nature  to  a  God  not  yet  reveal'd. 

'Tis  Revelation  satisfies  all  doubts, 

Explains  all  mysteries,  except  her  own, 

And  so  illuminates  the  path  of  life, 

That  fools  discover  it,  and  stray  no  more. 

Now  tell  me,  dignified  and  sapient  sir, 

My  man  of  morals,  nurtured  in  the  shades 

Of  Academus,  is  this  false  or  true? 

Is  Christ  the  abler  teacher,  <>r  the  schools? 

if  Christ,  then  why  resort  at  every  turn 

To  Athens  or  to  Rome,  for  wisdom  short 

Of  man's  occasions,  when  in  Him  reside 

Grace,  knowl  comfort,  an  unfathonfd  store  ? 

Ilow  oft,  when  Paul  has  served  us  with  a  text, 

Has  Epictetns,  Plato,  Tully.  pivarh'd  ! 

Men  that,  if  now  alive,  would  >it  content 

And  humble  learners  of  a  Saviour's  worth. 

Preach  it  who  might.     Such  was  their  truth, 

Their  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  th«-ir  candor  too. 

And  thus  it  is.     The  pastor,  either  vain 

By  natur".  or  by  flattery  made  so,  taught 

To  gaze  at  his  own  splendor,  and  to  exalt 

Absurdly,  not  his  (.nice,  but  himself; 

Or  uneniighten'd,  and  too  pp. mi  to  learn, 

Or  vicious,  and  not  therefor-   apt  to  teach, 

Perverting  often  by  the  stivs-  of  lewd 

And  loose  example,  whom  he  should  instruct, 

Exposes  and  holds  up  to  broad  di>gr.ice 

The  noblest  function,  and  discredit.-  much 

The  brightest  truths  that  man  has  ever  seen. 

For  ghostly  counsel,  if  it  either  fall 

Below  the  exigence,  or  be  not  back'd 

With  show  of  love,  at  lea>t  with  hopeful  proof 

Of  some  sincerity  on  the  giver's  part  ; 

Or  be  dishonor'd  in  the  exterior  form 

And  mode  of  its  conveyance,  by  such  tricks 

As  move  derision,  or  by  foppish  airs 

And  histrionic  mummery,  that  let  down 

The  pulpit  to  the  level  of  the  stage, 

Drops  from  the  lips  a  disregard  i-d  thing. 

The  weak  perhaps  are  moved,  but  are  not  taught, 

While  prejudice  in  men  of  stronger  minds 

Takes  deeper  root,  confirm'd  by  what  they  »ee. 

A  relaxation  of  religion's  hold 

Upon  the  roving  and  un tutor' d  heart 


278  THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 

Soon  follows,  and  the  curb  of  conscience  snapp'd, 
The  laity  run  wild. — But  do  they  now? 
Note  their  extravagance,  and  be  convinced. 

As  nations,  ignorant  of  God,  contrive 
A  wooden  one,  so  we,  no  longer  taught 
By  monitors  that  mother  Church  supplies, 
Now  make  our  own.     Posterity  will  ask, 
(If  e'er  posterity  see  verse  of  mine,) 
Some  fifty  or  a  hundred  lustrums  hence, 
What  was  a  monitor  in  George's  days  ? 
My  very  gentle  reader,  yet  unborn, 
Of  whom  I  needs  must  augur  better  things, 
Since  Heaven  would  sure  grow  weary  of  a  world 
Productive  only  of  a  race  like  ours, 
A  monitor  is  wood.     Plankshaven  thin. 
We  wear  it  at  our  backs.     There  closely  braced 
And  neatly  fitted,  it  compresses  hard 
The  prominent  and  most  unsightly  bones, 
And  binds  the  shoulders  flat.     We  prove  its  use 
Sovereign  and  most  effectual  to  secure 
A  form  not  now  gymnastic  as  of  yore, 
From  rickets  and  distortion,  else,  our  lot. 
But  thus  admonish'd  we  can  walk  erect, 
One  proof  at  least  of  manhood  ;  while  the  friend 
Sticks  close,  a  Mentor  worthy  of  his  charge. 
Our  habits  costlier  than  Lucullus  wore, 
And  by  caprice  as  multiplied  as  his, 
Just  please  us  while  the  fashion  is  at  full, 
But  change  with  every  moon.     The  sycophant 
Who  waits  to  dress  us,  arbitrates  their  date, 
Surveys  his  fair  reversion  with  keen  eye  ; 
Finds  one  ill  made,  another  obsolete, 
This  fits  not  nicely,  that  is  ill  conceived, 
And  making  prize  of  all  that  he  condemns, 
With  our  expenditure,  defrays  his  own. 
Variety's  the  very  spice  of  life, 
That  gives  it  all  its  flavor.     We  have  run 
Through  every  change  that  fancy  at  the  loom 
Exhausted,  has  had  genius  to  supply, 
And  studious  of  mutation  still,  discard 
A  real  elegance,  a  little  used, 
For  monstrous  novelty  and  strange  disguise. 
We  sacrifice  to  dress,  till  household  joys 
And  comforts  cease.     Dress  drains  our  cellar  dry, 
And  keeps  our  larder  lean  ;  puts  out  our  fires, 
And  introduces  hunger,  frost,  and  woe, 


THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE.  279 

Where  peace  and  hospitality  might  reign. 

What  man  that  lives,  and  that  knows  how  to  live, 

Would  fail  to  exhibit  at  the  public  shows 

A  form  as  splendid  as  the  proudest  there, 

Though  appetite  raise  outcries  at  the  cost  ? 

A  man  of  the  town  dines  late,  but  soon  enough, 

With  reasonable  forecast  and  despatch, 

To  insure  a  side-box  station  at  half-price. 

You  think,  perhaps,  so  delicate  his  dress, 

His  daily  fare  as  delicate.     Alas  1 

He  picks  clean  teeth,  and,  busy  as  he  seems 

With  an  old  tavern  quill,  is  hungry  yet. 

The  rout  is  folly's  circle,  which  she  draws 

With  magic  wand.     So  potent  is  the  spell, 

That  none,  decoy 'd  into  that  fatal  ring, 

Unless  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace,  escape. 

There  we  grow  early  gray,  but  never  wise  ; 

There  form  connexions,  but  acquire  no  friend  ; 

Solicit  pleasure  hopeless  of  success ; 

Waste  youth  in  occupations  only  fit 

For  second  childhood,  and  devote  old  age 

To  sports  which  only  childhood  could  excuse. 

There  they  are  happiest  who  dissemble  best 

Their  weariness  ;  and  they  the  most  polite 

Who  squander  time  arid  treasure  with  a  smile, 

Though  at  their  own  destruction.     She  that  asks 

Her  dear  five  hundred  friends,  contemns  them  all, 

And  hates  their  coming.     They,  what  can  they  less  ? 

Make  just  reprisals,  and  with  cringe  and  shrug, 

And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her. 

All  catch  the  frenzy,  downward  from  her  Grace, 

Whose  flambeaux  flash  against  the  morning  skies, 

And  gild  our  chamber  ceilings  as  they  pass, 

To  her  who,  frugal  only  that  her  thrift 

May  feed  excesses  she  can  ill  afford, 

Is  hackney'd  home  unlackey'd  ;  who  in  haste 

Alighting,  turns  the  key  in  her  own  door, 

And  at  the  watchman's  lantern  borrowing  light, 

Finds  a  cold  bed  her  only  comfort  left. 

Wives  beggar  husbands,  husbands  starve  their  wivest 

On  Fortune's  velvet  altar  offering  up 

Their  last  poor  pittance — Fortune  most  severe 

Of  Goddesses  yet  known,  and  costlier  far 

Than  all  that  held  their  routs  in  Juno's  heaven. 

So  fare  we  in  this  prison-house  the  world. 

And  'tis  a  fearful  spectacle  to  see 


*8o  THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 


So  many  maniacs  dancing  in  their  chains. 
They  gaze  upon  the  links  that  hold  them  fast, 
With  eyes  01  anguish,  execrate  their  lot, 
Then  shake  them  in  despair,  and  dance  again. 

Now  basket  up  the  family  of  plagues 
That  waste  our  vitals.     Peculation,  sale 
Of  honor,  perjury,  corruption,  frauds 
By  forgery,  by  subterfuge  of  law, 
By  tricks  and  lies  as  numerous  and  as  keen 
As  the  necessities  their  authors  feel ; 
Then  cast  them  closely  bundled,  every  brat 
At  the  right  door.     Profusion  is  the  sire. 
Profusion  unrestrain'd,  with  all  that's  base 
In  character,  has  litter'd  all  the  land, 
And  bred  within  the  memory  of  no  few, 
A  priesthood  such  as  Baal's  was  of  old, 
A  people  such  as  never  was  till  now. 
It  is  a  hungry  vice  : — it  eats  up  all 
That  gives  society  its  beauty,  strength, 
Convenience,  and  security,  and  use  : 
Makes  men  mere  vermin,  worthy  to  be  trapp'd 
And  gibbeted  as  fast  as  catchpole  claws 
Can  seize  the  slippery  prey :  unties  the  knot 
Of  union,  and  converts  the  sacred  band 
That  holds  mankind  together,  to  a  scourge. 
Profusion  deluging  a  state  with  lusts 
Of  grossest  nature  and  of  worse  effects. 
Prepares  it  for  its  ruin  :  hardens,  blinds, 
And  warps  the  consciences  of  public  men 
Till  they  can  laugh  at  virtue  ;  mock  the  fools 
That  trust  them ;  and,  in  the  end,  disclose  a  face 
That  would  have  shock'd  credulity  herself 
Unmask' d,  vouchsafing  this  their  sole  excuse  : 
Since  all  alike  are  selfish — why  not  they  ? 
This  does  Profusion,  and  the  accursed  cause 
Of  such  deep  mischief,  has  itself  a  cause. 

In  colleges  and  halls,  in  ancient  days, 
When  learning,  virtue,  piety,  and  truth 
Were  precious  and  inculcated  with  care, 
There  dwelt  a  sage  call'd  Discipline.     His  head 
Not  yet  by  time  completely  silver'd  o'er, 
Bespoke  him  past  the  bounds  of  freakish  youth, 
But  strong  for  service  still,  and  unimpair'd. 
His  eye  was  meek  and  gentle,  and  a  smile 
Play'd  on  his  lips,  and  in  his  speech  was  heard 
Paternal  sweetness,  dignity,  and  love. 


THE  TASK,— THE  TIME-PIECE.  28 

The  occupation  dearest  to  his  heart 

Was  to  encourage  goodness.     He  would  stroke 

Tlie  head  of  modest  and  ingenuous  worth 

That  blush'd  at  his  own  praise  ;  and  press  the  youth 

Close  to  his  side  that  pleased  him.     Learning  grew 

Beneath  his  care,  a  thriving  vigorous  plant ; 

The  mind  was  well-inform 'd,  the  passions  held 

Subordinate,  arid  diligence  was  choice. 

If  e'er  it  chanced,  as  sometimes  chance  it  must, 

That  one  among  so  many  overleap'd 

The  limits  of  control,  his  gentle  eye 

Grew  stern,  and  darted  a  severe  rebuke ; 

His  frown  was  full  of  terror,  and  his  voice 

Shook  the  delinquent  with  such  fits  of  awe 

As  left  him  not,  till  penitence  had  won 

Lost  favor  back  again,  and  closed  the  breach. 

But  Discipline,  a  faithful  servant  long, 

Declined  at  length  into  the  vale  of  years ; 

A  palsy  struck  his  arm,  his  sparkling  eye 

Was  quench'd  in  rheums  of  age,  his  voice  unstrung 

Grew  tremulous,  and  moved  derision  more 

Than  reverence,  in  perverse  rebellious  youth. 

So  colleges  and  halls  neglected  much 

Their  good  old  friend,  and  Discipline  at  length 

O'erlook'd  and  unemployed,  fell  sick  and  died. 

Then  study  languished,  emulation  slept, 

And  virtue  fled.     The  schools  became  a  scene 

Of  solemn  farce,  where  ignorance  in  stilts, 

His  cap  well  lined  with  logic  not  his  own, 

With  parrot-tongue  perform'd  the  scholar's  part, 

Proceeding  soon  a  graduated  dunce. 

Then  compromise  had  place,  and  scrutiny 

Became  stone-blind,  precedence  went  in  truck, 

And  he  was  competent  whose  purse  was  so. 

A  dissolution  of  all  bonds  ensued  ; 

The  curbs  invented  for  the  mulish  mouth 

Of  headstrong  youth  were  broken  ;  bars  and  bolts 

Grew  rusty  by  disuse,  and  massy  gates 

Forget  their  office,  opening  with  a  touch  ; 

Till  gowns  at  length  are  found  mere  masquerade : 

The  tassell'd  cap  and  the  spruce  band  a  jest, 

A  mockery  of  the  world.     What  need  of  these 

For  gamesters,  jockeys,  brothellers  impure, 

Spendthrifts  and  booted  sportsmen,  oftener  seen 

With  belted  waist  and  pointers  at  their  heels, 

Than  in  the  bounds  of  duty  ?    What  was  learn'd, 


282  THE  TASK.— THE  TIME-PIECE. 

If  aught  was  learn'd  in  childhood,  is  forgot, 

And  such  expense  as  pinches  parents  blue, 

And  mortifies  Jie  liberal  hand  of  love, 

Is  squander 'd  in  pursuit  of  idle  sports 

And  vicious  pleasures ;  buys  the  boy  a  name, 

That  sits  a  stigma  on  his  father's  house. 

And  cleaves  through  life  inseparably  close 

To  him  that  wears  it.     What  can  after-games 

Of  riper  joys,  and  commerce  with  the  world, 

The  lewd  vain  world,  that  must  receive  him  soon, 

Add  to  such  erudition,  thus  acquired, 

Where  science  and  where  virtue  are  profess'd  ? 

They  may  confirm  his  habits,  rivet  fast 

His  folly,  but  to  spoil  him  is  a  task 

That  bids  defiance  to  the  united  powers 

Of  fashion,  dissipation,  taverns,  stews. 

Now  blame  we  most  the  nurslings  or  the  nurse  ? 

The  children,  crook'd,  and  twisted,  and  deform'd, 

Through  want  of  care  ;  or  her  whose  winking  eye 

And  slumbering  oscitancy  mars  the  brood  ? 

The  nurse,  no  doubt.     Regardless  of  her  charge, 

She  needs  herself  correction ;  needs  to  learn 

That  it  is  dangerous  sporting  with  the  world, 

With  things  so  sacred  as  a  nation's  trust, 

The  nurture  of  her  youth,  her  dearest  pledge. 

All  are  not  such.     I  had  a  brother  once — 
Peace  to  the  memory  of  a  man  of  worth, 
A  man  of  letters,  and  of  mariners  too  1 
Of  manners  sweet  as  Virtue  always  wears, 
When  gay  good-nature  dresses  her  in  smiles. 
He  graced  a  college,*  in  which  order  yet 
Was  sacred  ;  and  was  honor'd,  loved,  and  wept 
By  more  than  one,  themselves  conspicuous  there. 
Some  minds  are  tempered  happily,  and  mix'd 
With  such  ingredients  of  good  sense  and  taste 
Of  what  is  excellent  in  man,  they  thirst 
With  such  a  zeal  to  be  what  they  approve, 
That  no  restraints  can  circumscribe  them  more 
Than  they  themselves  by  choice,  for  wisdom's  sake. 
Nor  can  example  hurt  them  !  what  they  see 
Of  vice  in  others  but  enhancing  more 
The  charms  of  virtue  in  their  just  esteem. 
If  such  escape  contagion,  and  emerge 
Pure  from  so  foul  a  pool  to  shine  abroad, 


•Bonet  College,  Cambridge. 


THE  TASK.— THE  TLME-l'lECE.  283 

And  give  the  world  their  talents  and  themselves, 
Small  thanks'  to  those,  whose  negligence  or  sloth 
Exposed  their  inexperience  to  the  snare, 
And  left  them  to  an  undirected  choice. 

See  then  the  quiver  broken  and  decay'd, 
In  which  are  kept  our  arrows  !    Rusting  there 
In  wild  disorder,  and  unfit  for  use, 
What  wonder,  if,  discharged  into  the  world, 
Ciiey  shame  their  shooters  with  a  random  flight, 
Their  points  obtuse,  and  feathers  drunk  with  wine  I 
Well  may  the  church  wage  unsuccessful  war, 
With  such  artillery  arm'd.     Vice  parries  wide 
The  undreaded  volley  with  a  sword  of  straw, 
And  stands  an  impudent  and  fearless  mark. 

Have  we  not  track'd  the  felon  home,  and  found 
His  birthplace  and  his  dam  ?     The  country  mourns, 
Mourns  because  every  plague  that  can  infest 
Society,  and  that  saps  and  worms  the  base 
Of  the  edifice  that  Policy  has  raised, 
Swarms  in  all  quarters  ;  meets  the  eye,  the  ear. 
And  suffocates  the  breath  at  every  turn. 
Profusion  breeds  them  ;  and  the  cause  itself 
Of  that  calamitous  mischief  has  been  found  : 
Found  too  where  most  offensive,  in  the  skirts 
Of  the  robed  pedagogue  !  Else  let  the  arraign'd 
Stand  up  unconscious,  and  refute  the  charge. 
So  when  the  Jewish  leader  stretch'd  his  arm, 
And  waved  his  rod  divine,  a  race  obscene, 
Spawn'd  in  the  muddy  beds  of  Nile,  came  forth, 
Polluting  Egypt :  gardens,  fields,  and  plains 
Were  cover'd  with  the  pest ;  the  streets  were  fill'd ; 
The  croaking  nuisance  lurk'd  in  every  nook : 
Nor  palaces,  nor  even  chambers,  'scapecj  ; 
And  the  land  stank — so  numerous  was  the  fry. 


284  THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN. 


BOOK  III.— THE  GARDEN. 


ARGUMENT. 

Self-recollection  and  reproof — Address  to  domestic  happiness — Some  account  of  myse  f 
f  — The  vanity  of  many  of  their  pursuits  who  are  reputed  wise — Justification  of  my 
censures — Divine  illumination  necessary  to  the  most  expert  philosopher— The  ques 
tion,  What  is  truth  ?  answered  by  other  questions—Domestic  happiness  addressed 
again — ITew  lovers  of  the  country— My  tame  hare^^Occupations  of  a  retired  gentle- 
man in  his  garden— Pruning— Framing— Greenhouse— Sowing  of  npwer  seeds— The 
country  preferable  to  the  town  even  in  the  winter — Reasons  why  it  is  deserted  a\ 
that  season — Ruinous  effects  of  gaming,  and  of  expensive  improvement — Book  con- 
cludes with  an  apostrophe  to  the  metropolis. 

As  one  who,  long  in  thickets  and  in  brakes 

Entangled,  winds  now  this  way  and  now  that 

His  devious  course  uncertain,  seeking  home; 

Or,  having  long  in  miry  ways  been  foil'd, 

And  sore  discomfited,  from  slough  to  slough 

Plunging,  and  half  despairing  of  escape ; 

If  chance  at  length  he  finds  a  greensward  smooth 

And  faithful  to  the  foot,  his  spirits  rise, 

He  chirrups  brisk  his  ear-erecting  steed, 

And  winds  his  way  with  pleasure  and  with  ease  : 

So  I,  designing  other  themes,  and  call'd 

To  adorn  the  Sofa  with  eulogium  due, 

To  tell  its  slumbers,  and  to  paint  its  dreams, 

Have  rambled  wide.     In  country,  city,  seat 

Of  academic  fame  (howe'er  deserved), 

Long  held,  and  scarcely  disengaged  at  last. 

But  now  with  pleasant  pace  a  cleanlier  road 

I  mean  to  tread.     I  feel  myself  at  large, 

Courageous,  and  refresh'd  for  future  toil, 

If  toil  awaits  me,  or  if  dangers  new. 

Since  pulpits  fail,  and  sounding  boards  refle 
Most  part  an  empty  ineffectual  sound. 
What  chance  that  I,  to  fame  so  little  known, 
Nor  conversant  with  men  or  manners  much, 
Should  speak  to  purpose,  or  with  bettei  hope 
Crack  the  satiric  thong  ?     'Twere  wiser  far 
For  me,  enamour'd  of  sequester'd  scenes, 
And  charm 'd  with  rural  beauty,  to  repose, 
Where  chance  may  throw  me,  beneath  elm  or  vine, 
My  languid  liinbs,  when  summer  sears  the  plains ; 


THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN.  285 


Or,  when  rough  winter  rages,  on  the  soft 

And  shelter'd  Sofa,  while  the  nitrous  air 

Feeds  a  blue  flame,  and  makes  a  cheerful  hearth  \ 

There,  undisturb'd  by  Folly,  and  apprised 

How  great  the  danger  of  disturbing  her, 

To  muse  in  silence,  or  at  least  confine 

Remarks  that  gall  so  many  to  the  few, 

My  partners  in  retreat.     Disgust  conceal'd 

Is  ofttimes  proof  of  wisdom,  when  the  fault 

Is  obstinate,  and  cure  beyond  our  reach. 

Domestic  Happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  }>:iradi-e  that  lias  survived  the  fall  ! 
Though  few  now  taste  thee  unimpair'd  and  pure, 
Or  tasting  long  enjoy  thee  !  too  infirm, 
Or  too  incautious,  to  preserve  thy  sweets 
Unmix'd  with  drops  of  bitter,  which  neglect 
Or  temper  sheds  into  thy  crystal  cup  : 
Thou  art  the  nurse  of  Virtue,  in  thine  arms 
She  smiles,  appearing,  as  in  truth  she  is, 
Heaven-born,  and  destined  to  the  skies  again. 
Thou  art  not  known  where  Pleasure  is  adored, 
That  reeling  goddess  with  tlie  zoneless  waist 
And  wandering  eyes,  still  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  Novelty,  her  fickle,  frail  support ; 
For  thou  art  meek  and  constant,  hating  change, 
And  finding  in  the  calm  of  truth-tried  love 
Joys  that  her  stormy  raptures  never  yield. 
Forsaking  thee,  what  shipwreck  have  we  made 
Of  honor,  dignity,  and  fair  renown  ! 
Till  prostitution  elbows  us  aside 
In  all  our  crowded  streets  ;  and  senates  seem 
Convened  for  purposes  of  empire  It 
Than  to  release  the  adultress  from  her  bond. 
The  adultress  !   what  a  theme  for  angry  verse ! 
What  provocation  to  the  indignant  heart 
That  feels  for  injnr'd  love  !  but  I  disdain 
The  nauseous  task,  to  paint  her  as  she  is, 
Cruel,  abandoifd.  glorying  in  her  shame  I 
No  : — let  her  puss,  arid,  charioted  along 
In  guilty  splendor,  shake  the  public  ways  ; 
The  frequency  of  crimes  has  wash'd  them  white  ; 
And  verse  of  mine  shall  never  brand  the  wretch, 
Whom  matrons  now,  of  character  unsmirch'd, 
And  chaste  themselves,  are  not  ashamed  to  own. 
Virtue  and  vice  had  boundaries  in  old  time, 
Not  to  be  pass'd  :  and  she,  that  had  renounced 


286  THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN*. 

Her  sex's  honor,  was  renounced  herself 
By  all  that  prized  it  ;  not  for  prudery's  sake, 
But  dignity's,  resentful  of  the  wrong. 
'Twas  hard  perhaps  on  here  and  there  a  waif, 
Desirous  to  return,  and  not  received  ; 
But  was  a  wholesome  rigor  in  the  main, 
And  taught  the  unblemish'd  to  preserve  with  care 
That  purity,  whose  loss  was  loss  of  all. 
Men  too  were  nice  in  honor  in  those  days, 
And  judged  offenders  well.     Then  he  that  sharp'd, 
And  pocketed  a  prize  by  fraud  obtairi'd, 
Was  mark'd  and  shun'd  as  odious.     He  that  sold 
His  country,  or  was  slack  when  she  required 
His  every  nerve  in  action  and  at  stretch, 
Paid,  with  the  blood  that  he  had  basely  spared. 
The  price  of  his  default.     But  now — yes,  now 
i  We  are  become  so  candid  and  so  fair, 
So  liberal  in  construction,  and  so  rich 
In  Christian  charity  (goodrnatured  age !), 
That  they  are  safe,  sinners  of  either  sex, 
Transgress  what  laws  they  may.     Well  dress' d,  well  bred 
Well  equipaged,  is  ticket  good  enough 
To  pass  us  readily  through  every  door. 
Hypocrisy,  detest  her  as  we  may 
(Arid  no  man's  hatred  ever  wrong'd  her  yet), 
May  claim  this  merit  still — that  she  admits 
The  worth  of  what  she  mimics  with  such  care, 
And  thus  gives  virtue  indirect  applause  ; 
But  she  has  burn'd  her  mask,  not  needed  here, 
Where  Vice  has  such  allowance,  that  her  shifts 
And  specious  semblances  have  lost  their  use. 

I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since  ;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infix'd 
My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 
To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 
There  was  I  found  by^One  who  had  Himself 
Been  hurt  by  the  archers.     In  His  side  He  bore, 
And  in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 
With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 
He  drew  them  forth,  and  heal'd  and  bade  me  live. 
Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 
And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 
My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene ; 
With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 
Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may, 
With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 


THE  f ASK.— THE  GARDEN.  28? 

Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come. 
I  see  that  all  are  wanderers,  gone  astray 
Each  in  his  own  delusions  ;  they  are  lost 
In  chace  of  fancied  happiness,  still  woo'd 
And  never  won.     Dream  after  dream  ensues, 
And  still  they  dream  tliat  they  shall  still  succeed, 
And  still  are  disappointed.     Rings  the  world 
With  the  vain  stir.     I  sum  up  half  mankind, 
And  add  two-thirds  of  the  remaining  half, 
And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 
,  Dreams,  empty  dreams.     The  million  flit  as  gay 
As  if  created  only  like  the  fly, 

That  spreads  his  motley  wings  in  the  eye  of  noon, 
To  sport  their  season,  and  be  seen  no  more. 
The  rest  are  sober  dreamers,  grave  and  wise, 
And  pregnant  with  discoveries  new  and  rare. 
Some  write  a  narrative  of  wars,  and  feats 
Of  heroes  little  known,  arid  call  the  rant 
A  history  :  describe  the  man,  of  whom 
His  own  coevals  took  but  little  note, 
And  paint  his  person,  character,  and  views, 
As  they  had  known  him  from  his  mother's  womb, 
They  disentangle  from  the  puzzled  skein 
In  which  obscurity  has  wrapp'd  them  up, 
The  threads  of  politic  and  shrewd  design 
That  ran  through  all  his  purposes,  and  charge 
His  mind  with  meanings  that  he  never  had, 
Or  having,  kept  conceal'd.     Some  drill  and  bore 
The  solid  earth,  arid  from  the  strata  there 
Extract  a  register,  by  which  we  learn 
That  He  who  made  it,  and  reveal'd  its  date 
To  Moses,  was  mistaken  in  its  age. 
Some  more  acute,  and  more  industrious  still, 
Contrive  creation  ;  travel  nature  up 
To  the  sharp  peak  of  her  sublimest  height, 
And  tell  us  whence  the  stars  ;  why  some  are  fix'd, 
And  planetary  some  ;  what  gave  them  first 
Rotation,  from  what  fountain  flow'd  their  light. 
Great  contest  follows,  and  much  learn'd  dust 
Involves  the  combatants,  each  claiming  truth, 
And  truth  disclaiming  both  :   and  thus  they  spend 
The  little  wick  of  life's  poor  shallow  lamp 
In  playing  tricks  with  nature,  giving  laws 
To  distant  worlds,  and  trifling  in  their  own. 
Is't  not  a  pity  now,  that  tickling  rheums 
Should  ever  tease  the  lungs  and  blear  the  sight 


*88  THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN. 


Of  oracles  like  these  ?     Great  pity  too, 

That  naviiig  wielded  the  elements,  arid  built 

A  thousand  systems,  each  in  his  own  way, 

They  should  go  out  in  fume  and  be  forgot  ? 

Ah  !  what  is  life  thus  spent  ?  and  what  are  they 

But  frantic  who  thus  spend  it  ?  all  for  smoke, — 

Eternity  for  bubbles  proves  at  last 

A  senseless  bargain.     When  I  see  such  games 

Play'd  by  the  creatures  of  a  Power  who  swears 

That  He  will  judge  the  earth,  and  call  the  fool 

To  a  sharp  reckoning  that  has  lived  in  vain  ; 

And  when  I  weigh  this  seeming  wisdom  well, 

And  prove  it  in  the  infallible  result 

So  hollow  and  so  false, — I  feel  my  heart 

Dissolve  in  pity,  and  account  the  learn'd, 

If  this  be  learning,  most  of  all  deceived. 

Great  crimes  alarm  the  conscience,  but  it  sleeps 

While  thoughtful  man  is  plausibly  amused. 

Defend  me  therefore,  common  sense,  say  I, 

From  reveries  so  airy,  from  the  toil 

Of  dropping  buckets  into  empty  wells, 

And  growing  old  in  drawing  nothing  up  ! 

'Twere  well,  says  one  sage  erudite,  profound, 
Terribly  arch'd  and  aquiline  his  nose, 
And  overbuilt  with  most  impending  brows — 
'Twere  well,  could  you  permit  the  world  to  live 
As  the  world  pleases.     What's  the  world  to  you  ? 
Much.     I  was  born  of  woman,  and  drew  milk, 
As  sweet  as  charity,  from  human  breasts. 
I  think,  articulate,  I  laugh  and  weep, 
And  exercise  all  functions  of  a  man. 
How  then  should  I  and  any  man  that  lives 
Be  strangers^tojeach  other?     Pierce  my  vein, 
TaKcTbT  the  crimson  stream  meandering  there 
And  catechise  it  well.     Apply  your  glass, 
Search  it,  and  prove  now  if  it  be  riot  blood 
Congenial  with  thine  own  :  and  if  it  be, 
What  edge  of  subtlety  canst  thou  suppose 
Keen  enough,  wise  and  skilful  as  thou  art, 
To  cut  the  link  of  brotherhood,  by  which 
One  common  Maker  bound  me  to  the  kind  ? 
True  ;  I  am  no  proficient,  I  confess, 
In  arts  like  yours.     I  cannot  call  the  swift 
And  perilous  lightnings  from  the  angry  clouds, 
And  bid  them  hide  themselves  in  earth  beneath ; 
I  cannot  analyse  the  air,  nor  catch 


THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN.  289 

The  parallax  of  yonder  luminous  point 

That  seems  half  quench'd  in  the  immense  abyss  ; 

Such  powers  I  boast  not — neither  can  I  rest 

A  silent  witness  of  the  headlong  rage 

Or  heedless  folly  by  which  thousands  die, 

Bone  of  my  bone,  and  kindred  souls  to  mine. 

God  never  meant  that  man  should  scale  the  heavens 
By  strides  of  human  wisdom.     In  His  works, 
Though  wondrous,  He  commands  us  in  His  Word 
To  seek  Him  rather  where  His  mercy  shines. 
The  mind  indeed,  erilighten'd  from  above, 
Views  Him  in  all ;  ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 
Tlie  grand  effect ;  acknowledges  with  joy 
His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  His  style. 
But  never  yet  did  philosophic  tube, 
That  brings  the  planets  home  into  the  eye 
Of  observation,  and  discovers,  else 
Not  visible,  His  family  of  worlds, 
Discover  Him  that  rules  them  :  such  a  veil 
Hangs  over  mortal  eyes,  blind  from  the  birth, 
And  dark  in  things  divine.     Full  often  too 
Our  wayward  intellect,  the  more  we  learn 
Of  nature,  overlooks  her  Author  more ; 
From  instrumental  causes  proud  to  draw 
Conclusions  retrograde,  and  mad  mistake. 
But  if  His  Word  once  teach  us,  shoot  a  ray 
Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 
Truths  undiscern'd  but  by  that  holy  light, 
Then  all  is  plain.     Philosophy  baptized 
In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love 
Has  eyes  indeed  ;  and  viewing  all  she  sees, 
As  meant  to  indicate  a  God  to  man, 
Gives  Him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own.\ 
Learning  has  borne  such  fruit  in  other  days 
On  all  her  branches  :  piety  has  found 
Friends  in  the  friends  of  science,  and  true  prayer 
Has  flow'd  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 
Such  was  thy  wisdom,  Newton,  childlike  sage  1 
Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 
And  in  1 1  is  Word  sagacious.     Such  too  thine, 
Milton,  whose  genius  had  angelic  wings, 
And  fed  on  manna.     And  such  thine,  in  whom 
Our  British  Themis  gloried  with  just  cause, 
Immortal  Hale  !  for  deep  discernment  praised, 
And  sound  integrity  not  more,  than  famed 
For  sanctity  of  manners  undefiled. 


*9°  THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN. 

All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  its  glory  fades 
Like  the  fair  flower  dishevell'd  in  the  wind  ; 
Riches  have  wings,  and  grandeur  is  a  dreain  j 
The  man  we  celebrate  must  find  a  tomb, 
And  we  that  worship  him,  ignoble  graves. 
iX  Nothing  is  proof  against  the  general  curse 
Of  vanity,  that  seizes  all  below. 
The  only  amaranthine  flower  on  earth 
Is  virtue  ;  the  only  lasting  treasure,  truth. 
But  what  is  truth  ?     'Twas  Pilate's  question  put 
To  Truth  itself,  that  deign' d  him  no  reply. 
And  wherefore  ?  will  not  Grod  impart  His  light 
To  them  that  ask  it  ? — Freely — 'tis  His  joy, 
His  glory,  and  His  nature  to  impart. 
But  to  the  proud,  uncandid,  insincere, 
Or  negligent  enquirer,  not  a  spark. 
What's  that  which  brings  contempt  upon  a  book, 
And  him  who  writes  it,  though  the  style  be  neat, 
The  method  clear,  and  argument  exact  ? 
That  makes  a  minister  in  holy  things 
The  joy  of  many,  and  the  dread  of  more, 
His  name  a  theme  for  praise  and  for  reproach  ? 
That  while  it  gives  us  worth  in  God's  account, 
Depreciates  and  undoes  us  in  our  own  ? 
"What  pearl  is  it  that  rich  men  cannot  buy, 
That  learning  is  too  proud  to  gather  up,  * 
But  which  the  poor,  and  the  despised  of  all 
Seek  and  obtain,  and  often  find  unsought  ? 
Tell  me,  and  I  will  tell  thee  what  is  truth. 
O  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
(  Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasure  pass'd  ! 
Few  know  thy  value,  and  few  taste  thy  sweets 
Though  many  boast  thy  favors,  and  affect 
To  understand  and  choose  thee  for  their  own. 
But  foolish  man  foregoes  his  proper  bliss, 
Even  as  his  first  progenitor,  and  quits, 
Though  placed  in  Paradise  (for  earth  has  still 
Some  traces  of  her  youthful  beauty  left,) 
Substantial  happiness  for  transient  joy. 
Scenes  form'd  for  contemplation,  and  to  nurse 
The  growing  seeds  of  wisdom  ;  that  suggest 
By  every  pleasing  image  they  present, 
Reflections  such  as  meliorate  the  heart, 
Compose  the  passions,  and  exalt  the  mind  ; 
Scenes  such  as  these,  'tis  his  supreme  delight 


THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN.  291 

To  fill  with  riot,  and  defile  with  blood. 

Should  some  contagion,  kind  to  the  poor  brutes 

We  persecute,  annihilate  the  tribes 

That  draw  the  sportsman  over  hill  and  dale 

Fearless,  and  wrapt  away  from  all  his  cares  ; 

Should  never  game-fowl  hatch  her  eggs  again, 

Nor  baited  hook  deceive  the  fish's  eye ; 

Could  pageantry  and  dance,  and  feast  and  song 

Be  quell'd  in  all  our  summer-months'  retreats  ; 

How  many  self-deluded  nymphs  and  swains, 

Who  dream  they  have  a  taste  for  fields  and  groves. 

Would  find  them  hideous  nurseries  of  the  spleen, 

And  crowd  the  roads,  impatient  for  the  town  ! 

They  love  the  country,  and  none  else,  who  seek 

For  their  own  sake,  its  silence  and  its  shade  ; 

Delights  which  you  would  leave,  that  has  a  heart 

Susceptible  of  pity,  or  a  mind 

Cultured  and  capable  of  sober  thought, 

For  all  the  savage  din  of  the  swift  pack, 

And  clamors  of  the  field  ?     Detested  sport, 

Tliat  owes  its  pleasures  to  another's  pain, 

That  fi  eds  upon  the  sobs  and  dying  shrieks 

Of  harmless  nature,  dumb,  but  yet  endued 

With  eloquence  that  agonies  inspire 

Of  silent  tears  arid  heart-distending  sighs  ! 

Vain  tears,  alas  !  and  sighs  that  never  find 

A  corresponding  tone  in  jovial  souls. 

Well, — one  at  least  is  safe.     One  shelter'd  hare 

Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell 

Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woes. 

Innocent  partner  of  my  peaceful  home, 

Whom  ten  long  years'  experience  of  my  caro 

Has  made  at  last  familiar,  she  has  lost 

Much  of  her  vigilant  instinctive  dread, 

Not  needful  here,  beneath  a  roof  like  mine. 

Yes — thou  mayst  eat  thy  bread,  and  lick  the  hand 

That  feeds  thee  ;  thou  mayst  frolic  on  the  floor 

At  evening,  arid  at  night  retire  secure 

To  thy  straw  couch,  and  slumber  unalarm'd  ; 

For  I  have  gained  thy  confidence,  have  pledged 

All  that  is  human  in  me  to  protect 

Thine  unsuspecting  gratitude  and  love. 

If  I  survive  thee  I  will  dig  thy  grave  ; 

And  when  I  place  thee  in  it,  sighing  say, 

I  knew  at  least  one  hare  that  had  a  friend. 

How  various  his  employments,  whom  the  world 


292  THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN. 

Calls  idle,  and  who  justly  in  return 
Esteems  that  busy  world  an  idler  too ! 
Friends,  books,  a  garden,  and  perhaps  his  pen 
Delightful  industry  enjoy'd  at  home, 
And  Nature  in  her  cultivated  trim 
Dress'd  to  his  taste,  inviting  him  abroad— 
Can  he  want  occupation  who  has  these  ? 
Will  he  be  idle  who  has  much  to  enjoy  ? 
Me,  therefore,  studious  of  laborious  ease, 
Not  slothful,  happy  to  deceive  the  time, 
Not  waste  it,  and  aware  that  human  life 
Is  but  a  loan  to  be  repaid  with  use, 
When  He  shall  call  his  debtors  to  account, 
From  whom  are  all  our  blessings,  business  finds 
Even  here,  while  sedulous  I  seek  to  improve, 
1  At  least  neglect  not,  or  leave  unemploy'd 
The  mind  He  gave  me  ;  driving  it  though  slack 
Too  oft,  and  much  impeded  in  its  work 
By  causes  not  to  be  divulged  in  vain, 
To  its  just  point — the  service  of  mankind. 
He  that  attends  to  his  interior  self ; 
That  has  a  heart  and  keeps  it ;  has  a  mind 
That  hungers  and  supplies  it ;  and  who  seeks 
A  social,  not  a  dissipated  life, 
Has  business  ;  feels  himself  engaged  to  achieve 
No  unimportant,  though  a  silent  task. 
A  life  all  turbulence  and  noise  may  seem, 
To  him  that  leads  it,  wise  and  to  be  praised ; 
But  wisdom  is  a  pearl  with  most  success 
Sought  in  still  water,  and  beneath  clear  skies. 
He  that  is  ever  occupied  in  storms, 
Or  dives  not  for  it,  or  brings  up  instead, 
Vainly  industrious,  a  disgraceful  prize. 

The  morning  finds  the  self-sequester'd  man 
Fresh  for  his  task,  intend  what  task  he  may. 
Whether  inclement  seasons  recommend 
His  warm  but  simple  home,  where  he  enjoys, 
With  her  who  shares  his  pleasures  and  his  heart, 
Sweet  converse,  sipping  calm  the  fragrant  lymph 
Which  neatly  she  prepares  ;  then  to  his  book 
Well  chosen,  and  not  sullenly  perused 
In  selfish  silence,  but  imparted  oft 
As  ought  occurs  that  she  may  smile  to  hear, 
Or  turn  to  nourishment  digested  well. 
Or  if  the  garden  with  its  many  cares, 
All  well  repaid,  demand  him,  he  attends 


THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN.  293 


The  welcome  call,  conscious  how  much  the  hand 

Of  lubbard  Labor  needs  his  watchful  eye, 

Of  loitering  lazily  if  not  o'erseen, 

Or  misapplying  his  unskilful  strength. 

Nor  does  he  govern  only  or  direct, 

But  much  performs  himself  ;  no  works  indeed 

That  ask  robust  tough  sinews  bred  to  toil  ; 

Servile  employ, — but  such  as  may  amuse, 

Not  tire,  demanding  rather  skill  than  force. 

Proud  of  his  well-spread  walls,  he  views  his  trees 

That  meet,  no  barren  interval  between, 

With  pleasure  more  than  even  their  fruits  afford, 

Which,  save  himself  who  trains  them,  none  can  feel ; 

These  therefore  are  his  own  peculiar  charge, 

No  meaner  hand  may  discipline  the  shoots. 

None  but  his  steel  approach  them.     What  is  weak, 

Distempered,  or  has  lost  prolific  powers, 

Impair'd  by  age,  his  unrelenting  hand 

Dooms  to  the  knife  :  nor  does  he  spare  the  soft 

And  succulent  that  feeds  its  giant  growth, 

But  barren,  at  the  expense  of  neighboring  twigs 

Less  ostentatious,  and  yet  studded  thick 

With  hopeful  gems.     The  rest,  no  portion  left 

That  may  disgrace  his  art,  or  disappoint 

Large  expectation,  he  disposes  neat 

At  measured  distances,  that  air  ami  sun, 

Admitted  freely,  may  afford  their  aid, 

And  ventilate  and  warm  the  swelling  buds. 

Hence  Summer  has  her  riches,  Autumn  hence, 

And  hence  even  Winter  fills  his  withered  hand 

With  blushing  fruits,  and  plenty  not  his  own.* 

Fair  recompense  of  labor  well  bestow'd, 

And  wise  piecaution,  which  a  clime  so  rude 

Makes  needful  stfll,  whose  Spring  is  but  the  child 

Of  churlish  winter,  in  her  froward  moods 

Discovering  much  the  temper  of  her  sire. 

For  oft,  as  if  in  her  the  stream  of  mild 

Maternal  nature  had  reversed  its  course, 

She  brings  her  infants  forth  with  many  smiles, 

But  once  deliver'd,  kills  the  •   with  a  frown. 

He  therefore,  timely  warii'd,  nimself  supplies 

Her  want  of  care,  screening  and  keeping  warm 

The  plenteous  bloom,  that  no  rough  blast  may  sweep 

His  garlands  from  the  boughs.     Again,  as  oft 


*  Miraturque  novos  f  ructus  et  non  sua  poma.— VIRGIL. 


294  THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN. 


As  the  sun  peeps  arid  vernal  airs  breathe  mild, 
The  fence  withdrawn,  he  gives  them  every  beam, 
And  spreads  his  hopes  before  the  blaze  of  day. 

To  raise  the  prickly  and  green-coated  gourd, 
So  grateful  to  the  palate,  and  when  rare 
So  coveted,  else  base  and  disesteem'd, — 
Food  for  the  vulgar  merely, — is  an  art 
That  toiling  ages  have  but  just  matured, 
And  at  this  moment  unessay'd  in  song. 
Yet  gnats  have  had,  and  frogs  and  mice  long  since, 
Their  eulogy  ;  those  sang  the  Mantuan  bard, 
And  these  the  Grecian,  in  ennobling  strains  ; 
And  in  thy  numbers,  Phillips,  shines  for  aye 
The  solitary  Shilling.*     Pardon  then, 
Ye  sage  dispensers  of  poetic  fame  ! 
The  ambition  of  one  meaner  far,  whose  powers, 
Presuming  an  attempt  not  less  sublime, 
Pant  for  the  praise  of  dressing  to  the  taste 
Of  critic  appetite,  no  sordid  fare, 
A  cucumber,  while  costly  yet  and  scarce. 

TEastable  yields  a  stercoraceous  heap, 
Impregnated  with  quick  fermenting  salts, 
And  potent  to  resist  the  freezing  blast : 
For  ere  the  beech  and  elm  have  cast  their  leaf 
Deciduous,  when  now  November  dark 
Checks  vegetation  in  the  torpid  plant 
Exposed  to  his  cold  breath,  the  task  begins. 
Warily  therefore,  and  with  prudent  heed. 
He  seeks  a  favor'd  spot  \  that  where  he  builds 
The  agglomerated  pile,  his  frame  may  front 
The  sun's  meridian  disk,  and  at  the  back 
Enjoy  close  shelter,  wall,  or  reeds,  or  hedge 
Impervious  to  the  wind.     First  he  bids  spread 
Dry  fern  or  litter  d  hay,  that  may  imbibe 
The  ascending  damps  ,  then  leisurely  impose, 
And  lightly  shaking  it  with  agile  hand 
From  the  full  fork,  the  saturated  straw. 
What  longest  binds  the  closest,  forms  secure 
The  shapely  side,  that  as  it  rises  takes, 
By  just  degrees,  an  over-hanging  breadth, 
Sheltering  the  base  with  its  projected  eaves 
The  uplifted  frame  compact  at  every  joint. 
And  overlaid  with  clear  translucent  glass, 
He  settles  next  upon  the  sloping  mount, 

*  "  The  Splendid  Shilling  "  was  a  burlesque  poem  published  by  Phillips  in  1708. 


THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN.  295 

Whose  sharp  declivity  shoots  off  secure 

From  the  dash'd  pane  the  deluge  as  it  falls : 

He  shuts  it  close,  arid  the  first  labor  ends. 

Thrice  must  the  voluble  and  restless  earth 

Spin  round  upon  her  axle,  ere  the  warmth, 

Slow  gathering  in  the  midst,  through  the  square  mass 

Diffused,  attain  the  surface  :  when  behold ! 

A  pestilent  and  most  corrosive  steam, 

Like  a  gross  fog  Boeotian,  rising  fast, 

Arid  fast  condensed  upon  the  dewy  sash, 

Asks  egress  ;  which  obtain'd,  the  overcharged 

Arid  drench 'd  conservatory  breathes  abroad, 

In  volumes  wheeling  slow,  the  vapor  dank ; 

And  purified,  rejoices  to  have  lost 

Its  foul  inhabitant.     But  to  assuage 

The  impatient  fervor  which  it  first  conceives 

Within  its  reeking  bosom,  threatening  death 

To  his  young  hopes,  requires  discreet  delay. 

Experience,  slow  preceptress,  teaching  oft 

The  way  to  glory  by  miscarriage  foul, 

Must  prompt  him,  arid  admonish  how  to  catch 

The  auspicious  moment,  when  the  tempered  heat, 

Friendly  to  vital  motion,  may  afford 

Soft  fermentation,  and  invite  the  seed. 

The  seed^  selected  wisely,  plump,  and  smooth, 

And  glossy,  he  commits  to  pots  of  size 

Diminutive,  well  filled  with  well-prepared 

And  fruitful  soil,  that  has  been  treasured  long 

And  drank  no  moisture  from  the  dripping  clouds: 

These  on  the  warm  and  genial  earth  that  hides 

The  smoking  manure,  and  o'erspreads  it  all, 

He  places  lightly,  and  as  time  subdues 

The  rage  of  fermentation,  plunges  deep 

In  the  soft  medium,  till  they  stand  immersed. 

Then  rise  the  tender  gerins^  upstarting  quick 

And  spreading  widr  their  spongy  lobes,  at  first 

Pale,  wan,  and  livid,  but  assuming  soon, 

If  fann'd  by  balmy  and  nutritious  air, 

Strain'd  through  the  friendly  mats,  a  vivid  green. 

Two  leaves  produced,  two  rough  indented  leaves, 

Cautious  lie  pinches  from  the  second  stalk 

A  pimple,  that  portends  a  future  sprout. 

And  interdicts  its  growth.     Thence  straight  succeed 

The  branches,  sturdy  to  his  utmost  wish, 

Prolific  aTTTand  harbingers  of  more. 

The  crowded  roots  demand  enlargement  now, 


THE  TASK.—  THE  GARDEN-. 


And  transplantation  in  an  ampler  space. 
Indulged  in  what  they  wish,  they  soon  supply 
Large  foliage,  overshadowing  golden  flowers, 
Blown  on  the  summit  of  the  apparent  fruit. 
These  have  their  sexes,  and  when  summer  shines 
The  bee  transports  the  fertilizing  meal 
From  flower  to  flower,  and  even  the  breathing  air 
Wafts  the  rich  prize  to  its  appointed  use. 
Not  so  when  winter  scowls.     Assistant  art 
Then  acts  in  Nature's  office,  brings  to  pass 
The  glad  espousals,  and  ensures  the  crop. 

Grudge  not,  ye  rich  (since  luxury  must  have 
His  dainties,  and  the  world's*'  more  numerous  half 
Lives  by  contriving  delicates  for  you), 
Grudge  not  the  cost.     Ye  little  know  the  cares, 
The  vigilance,  the  labor,  and  the  skill, 
That  day  and  night  are  exercised,  and  hang 
Upon  the  ticklish  balance  of  suspense, 
That  ye  may  garnish  your  profuse  regales 
With  summer  fruits  brought  forth  by  wintry  suns. 
Ten  thousand  dangers  lie  in  wait  to  thwart 
The  process.     Heat  and  cold,  and  wind  and  steam, 
i   Moisture  and  drought,  mice,  worms,  and  swarming  flies 
Minute  as  dust  and  numberless,  oft  work 
Dire  disappointment  that  admits  no  cure, 
And  which  no  care  can  obviate.     It  were  long, 
Too  long  to  tell  the  expedients  and  the  shifts 
Which  he  that  fights  a  season  so  severe 
Devises,  while  he  guards  his  tender  trust, 
And  oft,  at  last,  in  vain.     The  learn'd  and  wise 
Sarcastic  would  exclaim,  and  judge  the  song 
Cold  as  its  theme,  and  like  its  theme,  the  fruit 
Of  too  much  labor,  worthless  when  produced. 

Who  loves  a  garden,  loves  a  greenhouse  too. 
Unconscious  of  a  less  propitious  clime, 
There  blooms  exotic  beauty,  warm  and  snug, 
While  the  winds  whistle  and  the  snows  descend. 
The  spiry  myrtle  with  unwithering  leaf 
Shines  there  and  flourishes.     The  golden  boast 
Of  Portugal  and  western  India  there, 
The  ruddier  orange  and  the  paler  lime, 
Peep  through  their  polish'd  foliage  at  the  storm, 
And  seem  to  smile  at  what  they  need  not  fear. 
The  amomum  there  with  intermingling  flowers 
And  cherries  hangs  her  twigs.     Geranium  boasts 
Her  crimson  honors,  and  the  spangled  beau, 


THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN.  297 

Ficoides,*  glitters  bright  the  winter  long. 
All  plants,  of  every  leaf  that  can  endure 
The  winter's  frown,  if  screen'd  from  its  shrewd  bite. 
Live  there  and  prosper.     Those  Ausoniaf  claims, 
Levantine  regions  these  ;  the  Azores  send 
Their  jessamine,  her  jessamine  remote 
Caffraria  :  foreigners  from  many  lands, 
They  form  one  social  shade,  as  if  convened 
By  magic  summons  of  the  Orphean  lyre. 
Yet  just  arrangement,  rarely  brought  to  pass 
But  by  a  master's  hand,  disposing  well 
The  gay  diversities  of  leaf  and  flower, 
Must  lend  its  aid  to  illustrate  all  their  charms, 
And  dress  the  regular  yet  various  scene. 
Plant  behind  plant  aspiring,  in  the  van 
The  dwarfish,  in  the  rear  retired,  but  still 
Sublime  above  the  rest,  the  statelier  stand. 
So  once  were  ranged  the  sons  of  ancient  Rome, 
A  noble  show !  while  Roscius  trod  the  stage ; 
And  so,  while  Garrick  as  renown'd  as  he, 
The  sons  of  Albion,  fearing  each  to  lose 
Some  note  of  Nature's  music  from  his  lips, 
And  covetous  of  Shakespeare's  beauty  seen 
In  every  flash  of  his  far- beaming  eye. 
Nor  taste  alone  and  well  contrived  display 
Suffice  to  give  the  marshall'd  ranks  the  grace 
Of  their  complete  effect.     Much  yet  remaims 
Unsung   and  many  cares  are  yet  behind, 
And  more  laborious  ;  cares  on  which  depends 
Their  vigor,  injured  soon,  not  soon  restored. 
The  soil  must  be  renew'd,  which,  often  wash'd, 
Loses  its  treasure  of  salubrious  salts, 
And  disappoints  the  roots  :  the  slender  roots. 
Close  interwoven,  where  they  meet  the  vase 
Must  smooth  be  shorn  away  ;  the  sapless  branch 
Must  fly  before  the  knife  ;  the  wither'd  leaf 
Must  be  detach 'd  ;  and  where  it  strews  the  floor 
Swept  with  a  woman's,  neatness,  breeding  else 
Contagion,  and  disseminating  death. 
Discharge  but  these  kind  offices,  (and  who 
Would  spare,  that  loves  them,  offices  like  these?) 
Well  they  reward  the  toil.     The  sight  is  pleased. 
The  scent  regaled,  each  odoriferous  leaf. 
Each  opening  blossom,  freely  breathes  abroad 
Its  gratitude,  and  thanks  him  with  its  sweets. 
~*Iceplant7~  "Fltaly. 


298  THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN. 


So  manifold,  all  pleasing  in  their  kind, 
All  healthful,  are  the  employs  of  rural  life, 
Reiterated  as  the  wheel  of  time 
Runs  round ,  still  ending,  and  beginning  still. 
Nor  are  these  all.     To  deck  the  shapely  knoll 
That  softly  swell'd  and  gayly  dress'd,  appears 
A  flowery  island,  from  the  dark  green  lawn 
Emerging,  must  be  deeni'd  a  labor  due 
To  no  mean  hand,  and  asks  the  touch  of  taste. 
Here  also  grateful  mixture  of  well-match'd 
And  sorted  hues  (each  giving  each  relief, 
And  by  contrasted  beauty  shining  more), 
Is  needful.     Strength  may  \jpeld  the  ponderous  spade, 
May  turn  the  clod,  and  wheel  the  compost  home, 
But  elegance,  chief  grace  the  garden  shows, 
And  most  attractive,  is  the  fair  result 
Of  thought,  the  creature  of  a  polish'd  mind. 
Without  it,  all  is  Gothic  as  the  scene 
To  which  the  insipid  citizen  resorts 
Near  yonder  heath  ;  where  industry  misspent, 
But  proud  of  his  uncouth  ill-chosen  task, 
Has  made  a  heaven  on  earth  ;  with  suns  and  moons 
Of  close  ramin'd  stones  has  charged  the  encumber'd  soil 
And  fairly  laid  the  zodiac  in  the  dust. 
He  therefore  who  would  see  his  flowers  disposed 
Slightly  and  in  just  order,  ere  he  gives 
The  be<is  the  trusted  treasure  of  their  seeds, 
Forecasts  the  future  whole  ;  that  when  the  scene 
Shall  break  into  its  preconceived  display, 
Each  for  itself,  and  all  as  with  one  voice 
Conspiring,  may  attest  his  bright  design. 
Nor  even  then,  dismissing  as  perform'd 
His  pleasant  work,  may  he  suppose  it  done. 
Few  self-supported  flowers  endure  the  wind 
Uninjured,  but  expect  the  upholding  aid 
Of  the  smooth  shaven  prop,  and  neatly  tied, 
Are  wedded  thus  like  beauty  to  old  age, 
For  interest  sake,  the  living  to  the  dead. 
Some  clothe  the  soil  that  feeds  them,  far-diffused 
And  lowly  creeping,  modest  and  yet  fair, 
Like  virtue,  thriving  most  where  little  seen. 
Some,  more  aspiring,  catch  the  neighbor  shrub 
With  clasping  tendrils,  and  invest  his  branch, 
Else  unadorn'd,  with  many  a  gay  festoon 
And  fragrant  chaplet,  recompensing  well 
The  strength  they  borrow  with  the  grace  they  lend. 


THE  TASK.— THE  GARDEN.  299 

All  hate  the  vank  society  of  weeds, 
Noisome,  and  ever  greedy  to  exhaust 
The  inipoverish'd  earth  ;  an  overbearing  race, 
That  like  the  multitude,  made  faction-mad, 
Disturb  good  order,  and  degrade  true  worth. 

Oh,  blest  seclusion  from  a  jarring  world, 
Which  he,  thus  occupied,  enjoys!   Retreat 
Cannot  indeed  to  guilty  man  restore 
Lost  innocence,  or  cancel  follies  past ; 
But  it  has  peace,  and  much  secures  the  mind 
From  all  assaults  of  evil,  proving  still 
A  faithful  barrier,  not  o'erleap'd  with  ease 
By  vicious  custom,  raging  uncontroll'd 
Abroad,  and  desolating  public  life. 
When  fierce  temptation,  seconded  within 
By  traitor  appetite,  and  arm'd  with  darts 
Temper'd  in  hell,  invades  the  throbbing  breast, 
To  combat  may  be  glorious,  and  success 
Perhaps  may  crown  us  ;  but  to  fly  is  safe. 
Had  I  the  choice  of  sublunary  good, 
What  could  I  wish,  that  I  possess  not  here? 
Health;,  leisure,  means  to  improve  it,  friendship,  peace ; 
No  loose  or  wanton,  though  a  wandering  muse, 
And  constant  occupation  without  care. 
Thus  blest,  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss  ; 
Hopeless  indeed  that  dissipa:   d  minds, 
And  proflijrate  abusers  of  a  world 
Created  t'a,-  so  much  in  vain  for  them, 
Should  seek  the  guiltless  joys  that  I  describe, 
Allured  by  my  report :  but  sure  no  less 
Tli.if,  self-condemn'd,  they  must  neglect  the  prize, 
And  what  they  will  not  taste  must  yet  approve. 
What  we  admire  we  praise  ;  and  when  we  praise, 
Advance  it  into  notice,  that  its  worth 
Acknowledged,  others  may  admire  it  too. 
I  therefore  recommend,  though  at  the  risk 
Of  popular  disgust,  yet  boldly  still, 
The  cause  of  piety  and  sacred  truth, 
And  virtue,  and  those  scenes  which  God  ordain'd 
Should  best  secure  +hem  and  promote  them  most ; 
Scenes  that  I  love,  and  with  regret  perceive 
Forsaken,  or  through  folly  not  enjoy'd. 
Pure  is  the  nymph,  though  liberal  of  her  smiles, 
And  chaste,  though  unconfined,  whom  I  extol ; 
Not  as  the  prince  in  Shushan,  when  he  call'd, 
Vainglorious  of  her  charms,  his  Vashti  forth 


300  THE  TASK— THE  GARDEN. 

To  grace  the  full  pavilion.     His  design 

Was  but  to  boast  his  own  peculiar  good; 

Which  all  might  view  with  envy,  none  partake. 

My  charmer  is  not  mine  alone  ;  my  sweets, 

Arid  she  that  sweetens  all  my  bitters  too, 

Nature,  enchanting  Nature,  in  whose  form 

And  lineaments  divine  I  trace  a  hand 

That  errs  not,  and  find  raptures  still  renew'd, 

Is  free  to  all  men,  universal  prize. 

Strange  that  so  fair  a  creature  should  yet  want 

Admirers,  and  be  destined  to  divide 

With  meaner  objects  even  the  few  she  finds. 

Stripp'd  of  her  ornaments,  her  leaves  and  flowers, 

She  loses  all  her  influence.     Cities  then 

Attract  us,  and  neglected  nature  pines, 

Abandon'd,  as  unworthy  of  our  love. 

But  are  not  wholesome  airs,  though  unperfumed 

By  roses,  and  clear  suns  though  scarcely  felt, 

And  groves,  if  unharmonious,  yet  secure 

From  clamor,  and  whose  very  silence  charms, 

To  be  preferr'd  to  smoke,  to  the  eclipse 

That  metropolitan  volcanoes  make, 

Whose  Stygian  throats  breathe  darkness  all  day  long, 

And  to  the  stir  of  commerce,  driving  slow, 

And  thundering  load,  with  his  ten  thousand  wheels? 

They  would  be,  were  not  madness  in  the  head, 

And  folly  in  the  heart ;  were  England  now 

What  England  was,  plain,  hospitable,  kind, 

And  undebauch'd.     But  we  have  bid  farewell 

To  all  the  virtues  of  those  better  days, 

And  all  their  honest  pleasures.     Mansions  once 

Knew  their  own  masters,  and  laborious  hinds, 

That  had  survived  the  father,  served  the  son. 

Now  the  legitimate  and  rightful  lord 

Is  but  a  transient  guest,  newly  arrived, 

And  soon  to  be  supplanted.     He  that  saw 

His  patri'nonial  timber  cast  its  leaf, 

Sells  the  last  scantling,  and  transfers  the  price 

To  some  shrewd  sharper,  ere  it  buds  again. 

Estates  are  landscapes,  gazed  upon  awhile, 

Then  advertised,  and  auctioneer'd  away. 

The  country  starves,  and  they  that  feed  the  overcharged 

And  surfeited  lewd  town  with  her  fair  dues, 

By  a  just  judgment  strip  and  starve  themselves. 

The  wings  that  waft  our  riches  out  of  sight 

Grow  on  the  gamester's  elbows,  arid  the  alert 


THE  TASK.  — THE  GARDEN.  301 

And  nimble  motion  of  those  restless  joints, 
That  never  tire,  soon  fans  them  all  away. 
Improvement  too.  the  idol  of  the  age, 
1  Is  fed  with  many  a  victim.     Lo  !  he  comes, — 
The  omnipotent  magician,  Brown,*  appears. 
Down  falls  the  venerable  pile,  the  abode 
Of  our  forefathers   a  grave  whisker'd  race, 
But  tasteless.     Springs  a  palace  in  its  stead, 
But  in  a  distant  spot  ;  where  more  exposed, 
It  may  enjoy  the  advantage  of  the  north, 
And  aguish  east,  till  time  shall  have  transform'*! 
Those  naked  acres  to  a  sheltering  grove. 
He  speaks.     The  lake  in  front  becomes  a  lawn, 
Woods  vanish,  hills  subside,  and  valleys  rise, 
And  streams,  as  if  created  for  his  use, 
Pursue  the  track  of  his  directing  wand, 
Sinuous  or  straight,  now  rapid  and  now  slow, 
Now  murmuring  soft,  now  roaring  in  cascades, 
Even  as  he  bids.     The  enraptured  owner  smiles. 
'Tis  finished  !  and  yet,  finish'd  as  it  seems, 
Still  wants  a  grace,  the  loveliest  it  could  shew. 
A  mine  to  satisfy  the  enormous  cost. 
Drairi'd  to  the  last  poor  item  of  his  wealth, 
He  sighs,  departs,  and  leaves  the  accoinplish'd  plan 
That  he  has  touch'd,  retouch' d,  many  a  long  day 
Labord,  and  many  a  night  pursued  in  dreams, 
Just  when  it  meets  his  hopes,  and  proves  the  heaven 
He  wanted,  for  a  wealthier  to  enjoy. 
And  now  perhaps  the  glorious  hour  is  come, 
When  having  no  stake  left,  no  pledge  to  endear 
Her  interests,  or  that  gives  her  sacred  cause 
A  moment's  operation  on  his  love, 
He  burns  with  most  intense  and  flagant  zeal 
To  serve  his  country.     Ministerial  grace 
Deals  him  out  money  from  the  public  chest ; 
Or  if  that  mine  be  shut,  some  private  purse 
Supplies  his  need  with  an  usurious  loan, 
To  be  refunded  duly,  when  his  vote, 
Well  managed,  shall  have  earn'd  its  worthy  price. 
Oh  innocent,  compared  with  arts  like  these, 
Crape  and  cock'd  pistol,  and  the  whistling  ball 
Sent  through  the  traveller's  temples  !     He  that  finds 
One  drop  of  Heaven's  sweet  mercy  in  his  cup, 

-L       •  m 

*  Lancelot  Brown,  a  famous  landscape  and  ornamental  gardener.  He  was  born  in 
1715,  and  died  in  1773  He  had  the  nickname  of  "  Capability  Brown  "  given  him,  from 
hiB  frequent  use  of  that  word. 


THE  TASK.—  THE  GARDEN. 


Can  dig,  beg,  rot,  and  perish  well  content, 
So  he  may  wrap  himself  in  honest  rags 
At  his  last  gasp  ;  but  could  not  for  a  world 
Fish  up  his  dirty  and  dependent  bread 
From  pools  and  ditches  of  the  commonwealth, 
Sordid  and  sickening  at  his  own  success. 

Ambition,  avarice,  penury  incurr'd 
By  endless  riot,  vanity,  the  lust 
Of  pleasure  and  variety,  despatch 
As  duly  as  the  swallows  disappear, 
The  world  of  wandering  knights  and  squires  to  town. 
London  ingulfs  them  all.     The  shark  is  there, 
And  the  shark's  prey  ;  the  spendthrift  and  the  leech 
That  sucks  him.     There  the  sycophant,  and  he 
Who,  with  bareheaded  and  obsequious  bows, 
Begs  a  warm  office,  doom'd  to  a  cold_jailj 
And  groat  per  diem,  if  his  patron  frown. 
The  levee  swarms,  as  if,  in  golden  pomp, 
Were  character  'd  on  every  statesman's  door, 
"  BATTER'  D  AND  BANKRUPT  FORTUNES  MENUED  HERE/ 
hese  are  the  charms  that  sully  and  eclipse 
he  charms  of  nature.     'Tis  the  cruel  gripe 
That  lean  hard-handed  Poverty  inflicts, 
The  hope  of  better  things,  the  chance  to  win, 
The  wish  to  shine,  the  thirst  to  be  amused, 
That  at  the  sound  of  Winter's  hoary  wing, 
Unpeople  all  our  counties,  of  such  herds 
Of  fluttering,  loitering,  cringing,  begging,  loose 
And  wanton  vagrants,  as  make  London,  vast 
And  boundless  as  it  is,  a  crowded  coop. 

Oh  thou,  resort  and  mart  of  all  the  earth, 
Checker'd  with  all  complexions  of  mankind, 
And  spotted  with  all  crimes  ;  in  which  I  see 
Much  that  I  love,  and  more  that  I  admire, 
And  all  that  1  abhor  ;  thou  freckled  fair, 
That  pleases  and  yet  shocks  me,  1  can  laugh 
And  1  can  weep,  can  hope  and  can  despond, 
Feel  wrath  and  pity,  when  I  think  on  thee  ! 
Ten  righteous  would  have  saved  a  city  once, 
And  thou  hast  many  righteous.  —  Well  for  thee 
That  salt  preserves  thee  ;  more  corrupted  else, 
And  therefore  more  obnoxious  at  this  hour, 
Than  Sodom  in  her  day  had  power  to  be, 
For  whom  Grod  heard  his  Abraham  plead  in  vain. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  303 


BOOK  IV.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

AKGUMENT. 

Fhe  post  cornea  in— The  newspaper  is  read— The  world  contemplated  at  a  distance- 
Addreas  to  winter — The  rural  amusements  of  a  winter  evening  compared  with  the 
fashionable  ones — Address  to  evening — A  brown  study — Fall  of  KTIOW  in  the  evening 
— The  waggoner — A  poor  family  piece — The  rural  thief— Public-houses — The  multi- 
tude of  them  censured— The  farmer's  daughter:  what  K!IO  was;  what  she  Is — The 
simplicity  of  country  manners  almost  lost — Causes  of  tla-  c-hanire — Desertion  of  the 
country  by  the  rich— Neglect  of  magistrates— The  militia  principally  in  fault— The 
new  recruit  and  his  transformation— Reflection  on  bodies  corporate— The  love  of 
rural  objects  natural  to  all,  and  never  to  be  totally  extinguished. 

HARK  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  !     O'er  yonder  bridge, 

That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 

Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 

Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  n-ilrcted  bright, 

He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world, 

With  spatter'd  hoot-,  -trupp'd  waist,  and  frozen  locks, 

News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 

True  to  his  charge  the  cl<»i--pa   k'd  load  behind, 

Yet  careless  what  he  brin--.  his  one  concern 

Is  to  condi    t  it  to  the  destined  inn, 

And  havin-  dropp'd  the  expected  bag — pass  on. 

He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 

Cold  and  yet  cheerful  :   messenger  of  grief 

Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some, 

To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 

Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 

With  tears  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 

Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 

Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 

Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 

His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 

But  oh  the  important  budget !  usher'd  in 

With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 

What  are  its  tidings  !  have  our  troops  awaked  ? 

Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugg'd, 

Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave  ?* 

*The  American  war  waa  then  taking  place. 


304  THE  TASK,— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


Is  India  free  ?  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewell'd  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still  ?    The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply, 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
Arid  the  loud  laugh— I  long  to  know  them  all  -y 
I  burn  to  set  the  imprison'd  wranglers  free. 
And  give  them  voice  arid  utterance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 
Not  such  his  evening,  who  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and  squeezed 
Arid  bored  with  elbow  points  through  both  his  sides, 
Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage  ; 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb, 
Arid  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 
Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work  ! 
Which  not  even  critics  criticise  ;  that  holds 
Inquisitive  attention  while  I  read, 
Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 
Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break  ; 
What  is  it  but  a  map  of  busy  life, 
Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? 
Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge 
That  tempts  ambition.     On  the  summit,  see, 
The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes  ; 
He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them.     At  his  heels. 
Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends, 
And  with  a  dexterous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 
And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 
Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence  in  soft 
Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take  ; 
The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 
To  engross  a  moment's  notice,  and  yet  begs, 
Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts, 
However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 
Sweet  bashfulness  !  it  claims,  at  least,  this  praise  ; 
The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense, 
That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 
Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here- 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING,  305 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost ; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there, 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

But  gay  confusion  :  roses  for  the  cheeks 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age, 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald, 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean  plunder'd  of  their  sweets, 

Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews, 

Sermons  and  city  feasts,  and  favorite  airs, 

JEthereal  journeys,  submarine  exploit-, 

And  Katerfelto,*  with  his  hair  on  end 

At  his  own  wonder-,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

'Tis  pleasant  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat 
To  peep  at  such  a  world  ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  -ends  through  all  her  gates, 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  the  uninjured  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations  ;   1  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war 
lias  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  n,    not.     1  mourn  the  pride 
And  avarice  that  make  man  a  wolf  to  man, 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart, 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from  land  to  land ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans; 
lie  sucks  intelligence  in  every  clime, 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return,  a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  t<  o.     I  tread  his  deck, 
Ascends  his  topmar-:,  through  his  peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suffer  liis  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes  ; 

*  Katerfelto  was  a  quack  who  advertised  his  own  performances,  and  those  of  hu 
black  cat ;  heading  his  advertisements  with  "  wonders  !  wonders  !  wonders  I" 


3  Ob  THE  TASK.- -THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock, 
Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

O  Winter  1  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
Thy  scatter' d  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  fill'd, 
Thy  breath  congeal'd  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapp'd  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way  ; 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st, 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art.     Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noor, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares, 
I  crown  thee  King  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  hoineborn  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturb'd  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know. 
No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates  ; 
No  powder 'd  pert  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings  ;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound. 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake  : 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 
The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 
Unfolds  its  bosom  ;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  springs, 
And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 
Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair  ; 
A  wreath  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers  that  blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 
The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one" 
Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest ; 
The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shakes  out; 
And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 
And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  307 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 
On  female  industry  ;  the  threaded  steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 
The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.     A  Roman  meal, 
Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Deficious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 
Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors» 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 
Enjoy'd,  spare  feast  I  a  radish  and  an  egg. 

Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull 
Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth  ; 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world, 
Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 
Start  at  His  awful  name,  or  deem  His  praise 
A  jarring  note.     Themes  of  a  graver  tone, 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 
While  we  retrace  with  memory's  pointing  wand) 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 
The  dangers  we  have  'scaped,  the  broken  snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlook'd  for,  life  preserved  and  peace  restored, 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 
Oh  evenings  worthy  of  the  gods!  exclaim'd 
The  Sabiiie  bard.     Oh  evenings,  I  reply, 
More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours, 
As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths, 
That  I  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 

Is  winter  hideous  in  a  garb  like  this  ? 
Needs  he  the  tragic  fur,  the  smoke  of  lamps, 
The  pent-up  breath  of  an  unsavory  throng, 
To  thaw  him  into  feeling,  or  the  smart 
And  snappish  dialogue  that  flippant  wits 
Call  comedy,  to  prompt  him  with  a  smile  ? 
The  self-complacent  actor,  when  he  views 
(Stealing  a  sidelong  glance  at  a  full  house) 
The  slope  of  faces  from  the  floor  to  the  roof, 
(As  if  one  master  spring  controll'd  them  all), 
Relax'd  into  a  universal  grin, 
Sees  not  a  countenance  there  that  speaks  of  joy 
Half  so  refined  or  so  sincere  as  ours. 
Cards  were  superfluous  here,  with  all  the  tricks 
That  idleness  has  ever  yet  contrived 
To  fill  the  void  of  an  uiifurnish'd  brain, 


308  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

To  palliate  dulness,  and  give  time  a  shove. 

Time  as  he  passes  us,  has  a  dove's  wing, 

UnsoiPd  and  swift,  and  of  a  silken  sound  ; 

But  the  world's  time  is  time  in  masquerade. 

Theirs,  should  I  paint  him,  has  his  pinions  fledged 

With  motely  plumes,  and  where  the  peacock  shows 

His  azure  eyes,  is  tinctured  black  and  red 

With  spots  quadrangular  of  diamond  form, 

Ensanguined  hearts,  clubs  typical  of  strife, 

And  spades,  the  emblem  of  untimely  graves. 

What  should  be,  and  what  was  an  hourglass  once, 

Becomes  a  dice-box,  and  a  billiard  mace 

Well  does  the  work  of  his  destructive  scythe. 

Thus  deck'd,  he  charms  a  world  whom  fashion  blinds 

To  his  true  worth,  most  pleased  when  idle  most. 

Whose  only  happy  are  their  wasted  hours. 

Even  misses,  at  whose  age  their  mothers  wore 

The  backstring  and  the  bib,  assume  the  dress 

Of  womanhood,  sit  pupils  in  the  school 

Of  card-devoted  time,  and  night  by  night 

Placed  at  some  vacant  corner  of  the  board, 

Learn  every  trick,  and  soon  play  all  the  game. 

But  truce  with  censure.     Roving  as  I  rove, 

Where  shall  I  find  an  end,  or  how  proceed  ? 

As  he  that  travels  far,  oft  turns  aside 

To  view  some  rugged  rock  or  mouldering  tower. 

Which  seen,  delights  him  not ;  then,  coming  home, 

Describes  and  prints  it,  that  the  world  may  know 

How  far  he  went  for  what  was  nothing  worth  ; 

So  I,  with  brush  in  hand  and  pallet  spread 

With  colors  mix'd  for  a  far  different  use, 

Paint  cards  arid  dolls,  and  every  idle  thing 

That  fancy  finds  in  her  excursive  flights. 

Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace, 
Return,  sweet  Evening,  arid  continue  long ! 
Metliiriks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west, 
With  matron  step  slow  moving,  while  the  night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ;  one  hand  employ'd 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day  ; 
Not  sumptuously  adorn'd,  nor  needing  aid, 
Like  homely  featured  night,  of  clustering  geins  ; 
A  star  or  two  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow 
Suffices  thee  ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  not  worn  indeed  on  high 

<& 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  309 


With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift : 
And  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil  ; 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit  ; 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels, 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to  please  ; 
I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still. 
Just  when  our  drawing-rooms  begin  to  blaze 
With  lights,  by  clear  reflection  multiplied 
From  many  a  mirror,  in  which  he  of  Gath, 
Goliath,  might  have  seen  his  giant  bulk 
Whole  without  stooping,  towering  crest  and  all, 
My  pleasures  too  begin.     But  me  perhaps 
The  glowing  hearth  may  sa'ist'y  awhile 
With  faint  illumination,  that  uplifts 
The  shadows  to  the  ceiling,  there  by  fits 
Dancing  uiicouthly  to  the  quivering  flame. 
Not  tuideUghtful  is  an  hour  to  me 
So  spent  in  parlor  twilight ;  such  a  gloom 
Suits  well  the  thoughtful  or  unthinking  mind, 
The  mind  contemplative,  with  some  new  theme 
Pregnant,  or  indisposed  a'ike  to  all. 
Laugh  ye,  who  boast  your  more  mercurial  powers, 
That  never  feel  a  stupor,  know  no  pan 
Nor  need  one  ;   1  am  conscious,  and  confess, 
Fearless,  a  soul  that  does  not  always  think. 
Me  oft  has  fancy,  ludicrous  and  wild, 
Soothed  with  a  waking  dream  of  houses,  towers, 
Trees,  churches,  and  strange  visages  ex  press' d 
In  the  red  cinders,  while  with  poring  eye 
I  gazed,  myself  creating  what  I  saw. 
Nor  less  amused  have  I  quiescent  watch' d 
The  sooty  films  that  play  upon  the  bars 
Pendulous,  and  foreboding,  in  the  view 
Of  superstition,  prophesying  still, 
Though  still  deceived,  some  stranger's  near  approach 
'Tis  thus  the  understanding  takes  repose 
In  indolent  vacuity  of  thought, 
And  sleeps  and  is  refresh' d.     Meanwhile  the  face 
Conceals  the  mood  lethargic  with  a  mask 
Of  deep  deliberation,  as  the  man 
Were  task'd  to  his  full  strength,  absorb'd  and  lost. 


310  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

Thus  oft,  reclined  at  ease,  I  lose  an  hour 

At  evening,  till  at  length  the  freezing  blast, 

That  sweeps  the  bolted  shutter,  summons  home 

The  recollected  powers,  and  snapping  short 

The  glassy  threads  with  which  the  fancy  weaves 

Her  brittle  toils,  restores  me  to  myself. 

How  calm  is  my  recess,  and  how  the  frost, 

Raging  abroad,  and  the  rough  wind,  endear 

The  silence  and  the  warmth  enjoy'd  within  ! 

I  saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day 

A  variegated  show  ;  the  meadows  green, 

Though  faded ;  and  the  lands,  where  lately  waved 

The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 

Upturned  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share ; 

I  saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 

With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 

By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 

His  favorite  herb  ;  while  all  the  leafless  groves, 

That  skirt  the  horizon,  wore  a  sable  hue, 

Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 

To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change  ! 

Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed 

And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 

Of  universal  nature  undergoes. 

Fast  falls  a  fleecy  shower  :  the  downy  flakes 

Descending,  and,  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 

Softly  alighting  upon  all  below, 

Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 

Gladly  the  thickening  mantle,  and  the  green 

And  tender  blade  that  fear'd  the  chilling  blast, 

Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 

In  such  a  world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found, 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  his  side, 
It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguish' d  than  ourselves,  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills, 
And  sympathize  with  others,  suffering  more. 
Ill  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 
In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team. 
The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 
By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 
To  the  clogg'd  wheels  ;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace 
Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 
The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 


THE  TASK,— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  311 

While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 
Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 
Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  form'd  to  bear 
The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 
With  half-shut  eyes  and  pucker'd  cheeks,  and  teetb 
Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 
One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 
He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip, 
Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 
Oh  happy  1  and  in  my  account,  denied 
The  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 
Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou. 
Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed 
The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpair'd. 
The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 
Thy  vigorous  pulse  ;  and  the  unhealthful  east. 
That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 
Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee. 
Thy  day  rolls  on  exempt  from  household  care ; 
Thy  wagon  is  thy  wife  ;  and  the  poor  beasts, 
That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro, 
Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  en  thy  care. 
Ah,  treat  them  kindly  !  rude  as  thou  appear'st, 
Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy,  which  the  great 
With  needless  hurry  whiiTd  from  place  to  place, 
Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 

Poor,  yet  industrious,  modest,  quiet,  neat, 
Such  claim  compassion  in  a  ni^ht  like  this, 
And  have  a  friend  in  every  feeling  heart. 
Warm'd  while  it  lasts,  by  labor,  all  day  lon^ 
They  brave  the  scu><  »n,  and  yet  find  at  eve, 
111  clad  and  fed  Imt  sparely ,  time  to  cool. 
The  frugal  housewife  trembles  when  she  lights 
Her  scanty  stock  of  brushwood,  blazing  clear, 
But  dying  soon,  like  all  terrestrial  joys. 
The  few  small  embers  left  she  nurses  well, 
And  while  her  infant  race,  with  outspread  hands, 
And  crowded  knees,  sit  cowering  o'er  the  sparks, 
Retires,  content  to  quake,  so  they  be  warin'd. 
The  man  feels  least,  as  more  inured  than  she 
To  winter,  and  the  current  in  his  veins 
More  briskly  moved  by  his  severer  toil ; 
Yet  he  too  finds  his  own  distress  in  theirs. 
The  taper  soon  extinguished,  which  I  saw 
Dangled  along  at  the  cold  finger's  end 
Just  when  the  day  declined,  and  the  brown  loaf 


312  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING- 


Lodged  on  the  shelf,  half  eaten,  without  sauce 
Of  savory  cheese,  or  butter  costlier  still, 
Sleep  seems  their  only  refuge  :  for,  alas  I 
Where  penury  is  felt  the  thought  is  chain'd, 
And  sweet  coloquial  pleasures  are  but  few. 
With  all  this  thrift  they  thrive  not.     All  the  care 
Ingenious  parsimony  takes,  but  just 
Saves  the  small  inventory,  bed  and  stool, 
Skillet  and  old  carved  chest,  from  public  sale. 
They  live,  and  live  without  extorted  alms 
From  grudging  hands,  but  other  boast  have  none 
To  soothe  their  honest  pride,  that  scorns  to  beg ; 
Nor  comfort  else,  but  in  their  mutual  love. 
I  praise  you  much,  ye  meek  and  patient  pair, 
For  ye  are  worthy  ;  choosing  rather  far 
A  dry  but  independent  crust,  hard  earn'd, 
And  eaten  with  a  sigh,  than  to  endure 
The  rugged  frowns  and  insolent  rebuffs 
Of  knaves  in  office,  partial  in  the  work 
Of  distribution  ;  liberal  of  their  aid 
To  clamorous  importunity  in  rags, 
But  ofttimes  deaf  to  suppliants,  who  would  blush 
To  wear  a  tatter 'd  garb  however  coarse, 
Whom  famine  cannot  reconcile  to  filth  ; 
These  ask  with  painful  shyness,  and  refused 
Because  deserving,  silently  retire. 
But  be  ye  of  good  courage.     Time  itself 
Shall  much  befriend  you.     Time  shali  give  increase, 
And  all  your  numerous  progeny,  well  train'd, 
But  helpless,  in  few  years  shall  find  their  hands, 
And  labor  too.     Meanwhile  ye  shall  not  want 
What,  conscious  of  your  virtues,  we  can  spare, 
Nor  what  a  wealthier  than  ourselves  may  send. 
I  mean  the  man  *  who,  when  the  distant  poor 
Need  help,  denies  them  nothing  but  his  name. 
But  poverty,  with  most  who  whimper  forth 
Their  long  complaints,  is  self-inflicted  woe ; 
The  effect  of  laziness  or  sottish  waste. 
Now  goes  the  nightly  thief  prowling  abroad 
For  plunder ;  much  solicitous  how  best 
He  may  compensate  for  a  day  of  sloth, 
By  works  of  darkness  and  nocturnal  wrong. 
Woe  to  the  gardener's  pale,  the  farmer's  hedge 
Plash'd  neatly,  and  secured  with  driven  stakes 

*  Supposed  to  be  Mr.  Smith,  the  banker,  afterwards  created  Lord  Carrington. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  3M 


Deep  in  the  loamy  bank.     Uptorn  by  strength, 

Resistless  in  so  bad  a  cause,  but  lame 

To  better  deeds,  he  bundles  up  the  spoil, 

An  ass's  burden,  and,  when  laden  most 

And  heaviest,  light  of  foot  steals  fast  away. 

Nor  does  the  boarded  hovel  better  guard 

The  well-stack'd  pile  of  riven  logs  and  roots 

From  his  pernicious  force.     Nor  will  he  leave 

Unwrench'd  the  door,  however  well  secured, 

Where  chanticleer  amidst  his  harem  sleeps 

In  unsuspecting  pomp.     Twitch'd  from  the  perch, 

He  gives  the  princely  bird,  with  all  his  wives, 

To  his  voracious  bag,  struggling  in  vain, 

And  loudly  wondering  at  the  sudden  change. 

Nor  this  to  feed  his  own.     'Twere  some  excuse 

Did  pity  of  their  sufferings  warp  aside 

His  principle,  and  tempt  him  into  sin 

For  their  support  so  destitute.     But  they 

Neglected  pine  at  home,  themselves,  as  more 

Exposed  than  others,  with  less  scruple  made 

His  victims,  robb'd  of  their  defenceless  all. 

Cruel  is  all  he  does.     ?Tis  quenchless  thirst 

Of  ruinous  ebriety  that  prompts 

His  every  action,  and  imbrutes  the  man. 

Oh  for  a  law  to  noose  the  villain's  neck 

Who  starves  his  own  ;   who  persecutes  the  blood 

He  gave  them  in  his  children's  veins,  and  hates 

And  wrongs  the  woman  he  has  sworn  to  love. 

Pass  where  we  may,  through  city  or  through  town, 
Village  or  hamlet,  of  this  merry  land, 
Though  lean  and  beggar' d,  every  twentieth  pace 
Conducts  the  unguarded  nose  to  such  a  whiff 
Of  stale  debauch,  forth  issuing  from  the  styes 
That  law  has  licensed,  as  makes  temperance  reel. 
There  sit,  involved  and  lost  in  curling  clouds 
Of  Indian  fume,  and  guzzling  deep,  the  boor, 
The  lackey,  and  the  groom  ;  the  craftsman  there 
Takes  a  Lethean  leave  of  all  his  toil ; 
Smith,  cobbler,  joiner,  he  that  plies  the  shears, 
And  he  that  kneads  the  dough  ;  all  loud  alike, 
All  learned,  and  all  drunk.     The  fiddle  screams 
Plaintive  and  piteous,  as  it  wept  and  wail'd 
Its  wasted  tones  and  harmony  unheard. 
Fierce  the  dispute,  whate'er  the  theme  ;  while  she, 
Fell  Discord,  arbitress  of  such  debate, 
Perch'd  on  the  sign-post,  holds  with  even  hand 


314  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

Her  undecisive  scales.     In  this  she  lays 

A  weight  of  ignorance,  in  that,  of  pride ; 

And  smiles  delighted  with  the  eternal  poise. 

Dire  is  the  frequent  curse,  and  its  twin  sound 

The  cheek-distending  oath,  not  to  be  praised 

As  ornamental,  musical,  polite, 

Like  those  which  modern  senators  employ, 

Whose  oath  is  rhetoric,  and  who  swear  for  fame. 

Behold  the  schools  in  which  plebeian  minds, 

Once  simple,  are  initiated  in  arts 

Which  some  may  practise  with  politer  grace, 

But  none  with  readier  skill  1     'Tis  here  they  learn 

The  road  that  leads  from  competence  and  peace 

To  indigence  and  rapine  ;  till  at  last 

Society,  grown  weary  of  the  load, 

Shakes  her  encumber' d  lap,  and  casts  them  out. 

But  censure  profits  little  :  vain  the  attempt 

To  advertise  in  verse  a  public  pest, 

That,  like  the  filth  with  which  the  peasant  feeds 

His  hungry  acres,  stinks,  and  is  of  use. 

The  excise  is  fatten' d  with  the  rich  result 

Of  all  this  riot ;  and  ten  thousand  casks 

Forever  dribbling  out  their  base  contents, 

Touch'd  by  the  Midas'  finger  of  the  state, 

Bleed  gold  for  ministers  to  sport  away. 

Drink  and  be  mad  then  ;  'tis  your  country  bids  ; 

Gloriously  drunk,  obey  the  important  call ; 

Her  cause  demands  the  assistance  of  your  throats ; 

Ye  all  can  swallow,  and  she  asks  no  more. 

Would  I  had  fall'n  upon  those  happier  days 

That  poets  celebrate  ;  those  golden  times 

And  those  Arcadian  scenes  that  Maro  sings, 

And  Sidney,  warbler  of  poetic  prose. 

Nymphs  were  Dianas  then,  and  swains  had  hearts 

That  felt  their  virtues  :  Innocence,  it  seems, 

From  courts  disniiss'd,  found  shelter  in  the  groves. 

The  footsteps  of  Simplicity,  impress' d 

Upon  the  yielding  herbage  (so  they  sing) 

Then  were  not  all  effaced  :  then  speech  profane, 

And  manners  profligate,  were  rarely  found, 

Observed  as  prodigies,  and  soon  reclaim'd. 

Vain  wish  !  those  days  were  never :  airy  dreams 

Sat  for  the  picture,  and  the  poet's  hand, 

Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 

Imposed  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 

Grant  it :  I  still  must  envy  them  an  age 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  315 

That  favor'd  such  a  dream,  in  days  like  these 

Impossible,  when  virtue  is  so  scam-, 

That  to  suppose  a  scene  where  she  presides 

Is  tramontane,  and  stumbles  all  belief. 

No  :  we  are  polish'd  now.     The  rural  lass, 

Whom  once  her  virgin  modesty  and  grace, 

Her  artless  manner,  and  her  neat  attire, 

So  dignified,  that  she  was  hardly  less 

Tiiari  the  fair  shepherdess  of  old  romance, 

is  seen  no  more.     The  character  is  lost. 

Her  head,  adorn'd  with  lappets  pinn'd  aloft, 

And  ribbons  streaming  gay,  superbly  raised, 

And  magnified  beyond  all  human  size, 

Indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's  hand 

For  more  than  half  the  tresses  it  sustains  j 

Her  elbows  rulHed,  and  her  tottering  form 

111  propp'd  upon  French  heels  j  she  might  be  deem'd 

(But  that  the  basket  dangling  on  her  arm 

Interprets  her  more  truly)  of  a  rank 

Too  proud  for  dairy  work  or  sale  of  eggs. 

Expect  her  soon  with  foot  boy  at  her  heels, 

No  longer  blushing  for  her  awkward  load, 

Her  train  and  her  umbrella  all  her  care. 

The  town  has  tinged  the  country  ;  and  the  stain 
Appears  a  spot  upon  a  vestal's  robe, 
The  worse  for  what  it  soils.     The  fashion  runs 
Down  into  scenes  still  rural  ;  but,  alas  ! 
Scenes  rarely  graced  with  rural  manners  now. 
Time  was  when  in  the  pastoral  retreat 
The  unguarded  door  was  safe  ;  men  did  not  watch 
To  invade  another's  right,  or  guard  their  own. 
Then  sleep  was  undisturb'd  by  fear,  unscared 
By  drunken  bowlings  ;  and  the  chilling  tale 
Of  midnight  murder  was  a  wonder  heard 
With  doubtful  credit,  told  to  frighten  babes. 
But  farewell  now  to  unsuspicious  nights, 
And  slumbers  unalarm'd.     Now,  ere  you  sleep, 
See  that  your  polish'd  arms  be  primed  with  care, 
And  drop  the  nightbolt ;  ruffians  are  abroad ; 
And  the  first  'larum  of  the  cock's  shrill  throat 
May  prove  a  trumpet,  summoning  your  ear 
To  horrid  sounds  of  hostile  feet  within. 
Even  daylight  has  its  dangers  ;  and  the  walk 
Through  pathless  wastes  and  woods,  unconscious  onoe 
Of  other  tenants  than  melodious  birds, 
Or  harmless  flocks,  is  hazardous  and  bold. 


316  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

Lamented  change  1  to  which  full  many  a  cause 
Inveterate,  hopeless  of  a  cure,  conspires. 
The  course  of  human  things  from  good  to  ill, 
From  ill  to  worse,  is  fatal,  never  fails. 
Increase  of  power  begets  increase  of  wealth  j 
Wealth  luxury,  and  luxury  excess ; 
Excess,  the  scrofulous  arid  itchy  plague 
That  seizes  first  the  opulent,  descends 
To  the  next  rank  contagious,  and  in  time 
Taints  downward  all  the  graduated  scale 
Of  order,  from  the  chariot  to  the  plough. 
The  rich,  and  they  that  have  an  arm  to  check 
The  license  of  the  lowest  in  degree, 
Desert  their  office  ;  and  themselves,  intent 
On  pleasure,  haunt  the  capital,  and  thus 
To  all  the  violence  of  lawless  hands 
Resign  the  scenes  their  presence  might  protect. 
Authority  herself  not  seldom  sleeps, 
Though  resident,  and  witness  of  the  wrong. 
The  plump,  convivial  parson  often  bears 
The  magisterial  sword  in  vain,  and  lays 
His  reverence  and  his  worship  both  to  rest 
On  the  same  cushion  of  habitual  sloth. 
Perhaps  timidity  restrains  his  arm  ; 
When  he  should  strike,  he  trembles,  and  sets  free, 
Himself  enslaved  by  terror  of  the  band, 
The  audacious  convict,  whom  he  dares  not  bind. 
Perhaps,  though  by  profession  ghostly  pure, 
He  too  may  have  his  vice,  and  sometimes  prove 
Less  dainty  than  becomes  his  grave  outside 
In  lucrative  concerns.     Examine  well 
His  milk-white  hand  ;  the  palm  is  hardly  clean,— 
But  here  and  there  an  ugly  smutch  appears. 
Foh !  'twas  a  bribe  that  left  it:  he  has  touclrd 
Corruption.     Whoso  seeks  an  audit  here 
Propitious,  pays  his  tribute,  game  or  fish, 
Wildfowl  or  venison,  and  his  errand  speeds. 
But  faster  far,  and  more  than  all  the  rest, 
A  noble  cause,  which  none  who  bears  a  spark 
Of  public  virtue  ever  wish'd  removed, 
Works  the  deplored  and  mischievous  effect. 
Tis  universal  soldiership  has  stabb'd 
The  heart  of  merit  in  the  meaner  class. 
Arms,  through  the  vanity  and  brainless  rage 
Of  those  that  bear  them,  in  whatever  cause, 
Seem  most  at  variance  with  all  moral  good, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  317 

And  incompatible  with  serious  thought. 

The  clown,  the  child  of  nature,  without  guile, 

Blest  with  an  infant's  ignorance  of  all 

But  IILS  own  simple  pleasures,  now  and  then 

A  wrestling-match,  a  foot-race,  or  a  fair, 

Is  balloted,  and  trembles  at  the  news : 

Sheepish  he  doffs  his  hat,  arid  mumbling  swears 

A  bible-oath  to  be  whate'er  they  please, 

To  do  he  knows  not  what.     The  task  perform'd, 

That  instant  he  becomes  the  sergeant's  care, 

His  pupil,  and  his  torment,  and  his  jest. 

His  awkward  gait,  his  introverted  toes, 

Bent  knees,  round  shoulders,  and  dejected  looks, 

Procure  him  many  a  curse.     By  slow  degrees, 

Unapt  to  learn,  and  form'd  of  stubborn  stuff, 

He  yet  by  slow  degrees  puts  off  himself, 

Grows  conscious  of  a  change,  arid  likes  it  well. 

He  stands  erect  ;  his  slouch  becomes  a  walk  ; 

He  steps  right  onward,  martial  in  his  air, 

His  form,  and  movement ;  is  as  smart  above 

As  meal  arid  larded  lorks  can  make  him  ;  wears 

His  hat,  or  his  plumed  helmet,  with  a  grace  ; 

And  his  three  years  of  heroship  expired, 

Returns  indignant  to  the  slighted  plough. 

He  hates  the  Held  in  which  no  fife  or  drum 

Attends  him,  drives  his  cattle  to  a  march, 

And  sighs  for  the  smart  comrades  he  has  left. 

'Twere  well  if  his  exterior  change  were  all — 

But  with  his  clumsy  port  the  wretch  has  lost 

His  ignorance  and  harmless  manners  too. 

To  swear,  to  game,  to  drink,  to  show  at  home, 

By  lewdness,  idleness,  and  Sabbath  breach, 

The  great  proficiency  he  made  abroad  ; 

To  astonish  and  to  grieve  his  gazing  friends  ; 

To  break  some  maiden's  and  his  mother's  heart ; 

To  be  a  pest  where  he  was  useful  once  ; 

Are  his  sole  aim,  and  all  his  glory  now. 

Man  in  society  is  like  a  flower 
Blown  in  its  native  bed  :  'tis  there  alone 
His  faculties,  expanded  in  full  bloom, 
Shine  out ;  there  only  reach  their  proper  use. 
But  man,  associated  and  leagued  with  man 
By  regal  warrant,  or  self-join'd  by  bond 
For  interest  sake,  or  swarming  into  clans 
Beneath  one  head  for  purposes  of  war, 
Like  flowers  selected  from  the  rest,  and  bound 


318  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 


And  bundled  close  to  fill  some  crowded  vase, 

Fades  rapidly,  and,  by  compression  marr'd, 

Contracts  defilement  not  to  be  endured. 

Hence  charter'd  boroughs  are  such  public  plagues 

And  burghers,  men  immaculate  perhaps 

In  all  their  private  functions,  once  combined, 

Become  a  loathsome  body,  only  fit 

For  dissolution,  hurtful  to  the  main. 

Hence  merchants,  unimpeachable  of  sin 

Against  the  charities  of  domestic  life, 

Incorporated,  seem  at  once  to  lose 

Their  nature,  and,  disclaiming  all  regard 

For  mercy  and  the  common  rights  of  man, 

Build  factories  with  blood,  conducting  trade 

At  the  sword's  point,  and  dyeing  the  white  robe 

Of  innocent  commercial  justice  red. 

Hence  too  the  field  of  glory,  as  the  world 

Misdeems  it,  dazzled  by  its  bright  array, 

With  all  its  majesty  of  thundering  pomp, 

Enchanting  music  and  immortal  wreaths, 

Is  but  a  school  where  thoughtlessness  is  taught 

On  principle,  where  foppery  atones 

For  folly,  gallantry  for  every  vice. 

But  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandon'd,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret, 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still. 
I  never  fram'd  a  wish,  or  form'd  a  plan, 
That  flatter'd  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 
But  there  I  laid  the  scene.     There  early  stray'd 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural,  rural  too 
The  firstborn  efforts  of  my  youthful  muse, 
Sportive,  and  jingling  her  poetic  bells 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  powers. 
No  bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was  tuned 
To  Nature's  praises.     Heroes  and  their  feats 
Fatigued  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling,  as  he  sang, 
The  rustic  throng  beneath  his  favorite  beech. 
Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms : 
New  to  my  taste,  his  Paradise  surpass'd 
The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue 
To  speak  its  excellence  :  I  danced  for  joy. 
I  marvell'd  much  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING.  319 

As  twice  seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then  first 

Engaged  my  wonder,  and  admiring  still, 

Arid  still  admiring,  with  regret  supposed 

The  joy  half  lost  because  not  sooner  found. 

Thee  too,  (enamour'd  of  the  life  1  loved, 

Pathetic  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 

Determined,  and  possessing  it  at  last 

With  transports  such  as  favor'd  lovers  feel,) 

I  studied,  prized,  and  wish'd  that  I  had  known, 

Ingenious  Cowley  !  and  though  now,  reclaim'd 

By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 

1  cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit 

Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools : 

I  still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retired, 

Though  stretch'd  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent  bowers 

Not  unemploy'd,  and  finding  rich  amends 

For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse. 

'Tis  born  with  all :  the  love  of  Nature's  works 

Is  an  ingredient  in  the  compound,  man, 

Infused  at  the  creation  of  the  kind. 

And  though  the  Almighty  Maker  has  throughout 

Discriminated  each  from  each,  by  strokes 

And  touches  of  His  hand,  with  so  much  art 

Diversified,  that  two  were  never  found 

Twins  at  all  points — yet  this  obtains  in  all, 

That  all  discern  a  beauty  in  Ilis  works, 

And  all  can  taste  them  :  minds  that  have  been  form'd 

And  tutor'd,  with  a  relish  more  exact, 

But  none  without  some  relish,  none  unmoved. 

It  is  a  flame  that  dies  not  even  there, 

Where  nothing  feeds  it :  neither  business,  crowds, 

Nor  habits  of  luxurious  city  life, 

Whatever  else  they  smother  of  true  worth 

In  human  bosoms,  quench  it  or  abate. 

The  villas  with  which  London  stands  begirt, 

Like  a  swarth  Indian  with  his  belt  of  beads, 

Prove  it.     A  breath  of  unadulterate  air, 

The  glimpse  of  a  green  pasture,  how  they  cheer 

The  citizen,  and  brace  his  languid  frame  ! 

Even  in  the  stifling  bosom  of  the  town, 

A  garden,  in  which  nothing  thrives,  has  charms 

That  soothe  the  rich  possessor  ;  much  consoled 

That  here  and  there  some  sprigs  of  mournful  mint, 

Of  nightshade,  or  valerian,  grace  the  well 

He  cultivates.     These  serve  him  with  a  hint 

That  nature  lives  ',  that  sight-refreshing  green 


320  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  EVENING. 

Is  still  the  livery  she  delights  to  wear, 

Though  sickly  samples  of  the  exuberant  whole. 

What  are  the  casements  lined  with  creeping  herbs, 

The  prouder  sashes  fronted  with  a  range 

Of  orange,  myrtle,  or  the  fragrant  weed, 

The  Frenchman's  darling?*  are  they  not  all  proofs 

That  man,  immured  in  cities,  still  retains 

His  inborn  inextinguishable  thirst 

Of  rural  scenes,  compensating  his  loss 

By  supplemental  shifts,  the  best  he  may  ? 

The  most  unfurnish'd  with  the  means  of  life, 

And  they  that  never  pass  their  brick-wall  bounds 

To  range  the  fields  and  treat  their  lungs  with  air, 

Yet  feel  the  burning  instinct ;  over  head 

Suspend  their  crazy  boxes,  planted  thick, 

And  water'd  duly.     There  the  pitcher  stands 

A  fragment,  and  the  spoutless  teapot  there ; 

Sad  witnesses  how  close-pent  man  regrets 

The  country,  with  what  ardor  he  contrives 

A  peep  at  nature,  when  he  can  no  more. 

Hail,  therefore,  patroness  of  health  and  ease 
And  contemplation,  heart-consoling  joys 
And  harmless  pleasures,  in  the  throiig'd  abode 
Of  multitudes  unknown !  hail,  rural  life  ! 
Address  himself  who  will  to  the  pursuit 
Of  honors,  or  emolument,  or  fame, 
I  shall  not  add  myself  to  such  a  chase, 
Thwart  his  attempts,  or  envy  his  success. 
Some  must  be  great.     Great  offices  will  have 
Great  talents :  arid  God  gives  to  every  man 
The  virtue,  temper,  understanding,  taste, 
That  lifts  him  into  life,  and  lets  him  fall 
Just  in  the  niche  he  was  ordain'd  to  fill. 
To  the  deliverer  of  an  injured  land 
He  gives  a  tongue  to  enlarge  upon,  a  heart 
To  feel,  and  courage  to  redress  her  wrongs  ; 
To  monarchs  dignity  ;  to  judges  sense  \ 
To  artists  ingenuity  and  skill ; 
To  me  an  unambitious  mi  rid,  content 
In  the  low  vale  of  life,  that  early  felt 
A  wish  for  ease  and  leisure,  and  ere  long 
Found  here  that  leisure  and  that  ease  I  wish'd. 

*Migniouette- 


THE  TASK.—  THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


BOOK  V.—  THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK, 

ARGUMENT. 

A.  frosty  morning—  The  foddering  of  cattle—  The  woodman  and  his  dog—  ITie  poultry— 
Whimsical  effects  of  frost  at  a  waterfall—  The  Empress  of  Russia's  palace  of  ice— 
Amusements  of  monarchs—  War,  one  of  them—  Wars,  whence—  And  whence  mon- 
archy—  The  evils  of  it—  English  and  French  loyalty  contrasted—  The  Bastile,  and 
a  prisoner  there  —  Liberty  the  chief  recommendation  of  this  country  —  Modern 
patriotism  questionable,  and  why—  The  perishable  nature  of  the  best  human  institu- 
tions— Spiritual  liberty  not  perishable—  The  slavishstate  of  man  by  nature  —  Deliver 
him,  Deist,  if  you  can—  Grace  must  do  it—  The  respective  merits  of  patriots  and 
martyrs  stated—  Their  different  treatment—  Happy  freedom  of  the  man  whom  grace 
make'r;  tree—  His  relish  of  the  works  of  God—  Address  to  the  Creator. 

'Tis  morning  ;  and  the  sun  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending  fires  the  horizon  :  while  the  clouds 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind, 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze, 
Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting  ray 
Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 
And  tinging  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 
From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 
Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field. 
Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense.- 
In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 
That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade, 
Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance 
1  view  the  muscular  proportional  limb 
Transformed  to  a  lean  shank.     The  shapeless  pair, 
As  they  desigii'd  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 
Take  step  for  step  ;  and  as  1  near  approach 
The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plaster  d  wall, 
Preposterous  sight  1  the  legs  without  the  man. 
The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge  ;  and  the  bents, 
And  coarser  grass  upspearing  o'er  the  rest, 
Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad, 
And  fledged  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 
The  cattle  mourn  in  corners  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half-petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecuuibent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder,  not  like  hungering  mail 
Fretful  if  unsupplied,  but  silent,  meek, 
And  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain's  delay. 


322  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustom' d  load, 

Deep  plunging,  and  again  deep  plunging  oft, 

His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass ; 

Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 

With  such  urideviating  and  even  force 

He  severs  it  away  :  no  needless  care 

Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 

Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight. 

Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcern'd 

The  cheerful  haunts  of  man,  to  wield  the  axe 

And  drive  the  wedge  in  yonder  forest  drear, 

From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 

Shaggy,  and  lean,  and  shrewd,  with  pointed  ears 

And   tail  cropp'd  short,  half  lurcher,  and  half  cur, 

His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 

Now  creeps  he  slow  ;  and  now  with  many  a  frisk 

Wide  scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 

With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout ; 

Then  shakes  his  powder'd  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 

Heedless  of  all  his  pranks,  the  sturdy  churl 

Moves  right  toward  the  mark  ;  nor  stops  for  aught, 

But  now  and  then  with  pressure  of  his  thumb 

To  adjust  the  fragrant  charge  of  a  short  tube 

That  fumes  beneath  his  nose  :  the  trailing  cloud 

Streams  far  behind  him,  scenting  all  the  air. 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighboring  pale, 

Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 

Of  smiling  day,  they  gossip'd  side  by  side, 

Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known  call 

The  feather'd  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing, 

And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 

Conscious,  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 

The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves 

To  seize  the  fair  occasion.     Well  they  eye 

The  scatter'd  grain,  and  thievishly  resolved 

To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared 

As  oft  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind. 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 

Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 

Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.     Resign'd 

To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 

His  wonted  strut,  and  wading  at  their  head 

With  well-consider'd  steps,  seems  to  resent 

His  alter'd  gait  and  stateliness  retrench'd. 

How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 

The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  323 

Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 
Earth  yields  them  naught :  the  imprison'd  worm  is  safe 
Beneath  the  frozen  clod  ;  all  seeds  of  herbs 
Lie  cover'd  close,  and  berry-bearing  thorns 
That  feed  the  thrush,  (whatever  some  suppose,) 
Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 
The  long  protracted  rigor  of  the  year 
Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.     In  chinks  and  hole> 
Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end, 
As  instinct  prompts,  self-buried  ere  they  die. 
The  very  rooks  and  daws  forsake  the  fields, 
Where  neither  grub  nor  root  nor  earth-nut  now 
Repays  their  labor  more  ;  and  perch'd  aloft 
By  the  way-side,  or  stalking  in  the  path, 
Lean  pensioners  upon  the  traveller's  track, 
Pick  up  their  nauseous  dole,  though  sweet  to  them. 
Of  voided  pulse  or  half-digested  grain. 
The  streams  arc  lost  amid  the  splendid  blank, 
O'erwhelming  all  distinction.     On  the  flood, 
Indurated  and  fix'd,  the  snowy  weight 
Lies  undissolved  ;   while  silently  beneath. 
And  unperceived,  the  current  steals  away. 
Not  so,  where  scornful  of  a  check  it  leaps 
The  mill-dam,  dashes  on  the  restless  wheel, 
And  wantons  in  the  pebbly  gulf  below  : 
No  frost  can  bind  it  there;  its  utmost  force 
Can  but  arrest  the  light  and  smoky  mist 
That  in  its  fall  the  liquid  sheet  throws  wide. 
And  see  where  it  has  hung  the  embroider'd  banks 
With  forms  so  various,  that  no  powers  of  art, 
The  pencil  or  the  pen,  may  trace  the  scene ! 
Here  glittering  turrets  rise,  upbearing  high 
(Fantastic  misarrangement!)  on  the  roof 
Large  growth  of  what  may  seem  the  sparkling  trees 
And  shrubs  of  fairy  land.     The  crystal  drops 
That  trickle  down  the  branches,  fast  congeal'd, 
Shoot  into  pillars  of  pellucid  length, 
And  prop  the  pile  they  but  adorn'd  before. 
Here  grotto  within  grotto  safe  defies 
The  sunbeam  :  there  emboss'd  and  fretted  wild; 
The  growing  wonder  takes  a  thousand  shapes 
Capricious,  in  which  fancy  seeks  in  vain 
The  likeness  of  some  object  seen  before. 
Thus  nature  works  as  if  to  mock  at  art, 
<  And  in  defiance  of  her  rival  powers ; 
By  these  fortuitous  and  random  strokes 


324  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

F** 

Performing  such  inimitable  feats, 

As  she  with  all  her  rules  can  never  reach. 

Less  worthy  of  applause,  though  more  admired, 

Because  a  novelty,  the  work  of  man, 

Imperial  mistress  of  the  fur-clad  Russ  1  * 

Thy  most  magnificent  and  mighty  freak, 

The  wonder  of  the  north.     No  forest  fell 

When  thou  wouldst  build  ;  no  quarry  sent  its  stores 

To  enrich  thy  walls ;  but  thou  didst  hew  the  floods, 

And  make  thy  marble  of  the  glassy  wave. 

In  such  a  palace  Aristseus  found 

Gyrene, f  when  he  bore  the  plaintive  tale 

Of  his  lost  bees  to  her  maternal  ear : 

In  such  a  palace  poetry  might  place 

The  armory  of  winter  ;  where  his  troops, 

(</••  The  gloomy  clouds,  find  weapons,  arrowy  sleet, 
Skin-piercing  volley,  blossom-bruising  hail, 
And  snow  that  often  blinds  the  traveller's  course, 
And  wraps  him  in  an  unexpected  tomb. 
Silently  as  a  dream  the  fabric  rose  ; 
No  sound  of  hammer  or  of  saw  was  there. 
Ice  upon  ice,  the  well-adjusted  parts 
Were  soon  conjoin'd,  nor  other  cement  ask'd 
Than  water  interfused  to  make  them  one. 
Lamps  gracefully  disposed,  and  of  all  hues, 
Illumined  every  side ;  a  watery  light 
Gleam' d  through  the  clear  transparency,  that  seem'd 
Another  moon  new  risen,  or  meteor  fallen 
From  heaven  to  earth,  of  lambent  flame  serene. 
So  stood  the  brittle  prodigy ;  though  smooth 
And  slippery  the  materials,  yet  frostbound 
Firm  as  a  rock.     Nor  wanted  aught  within, 
That  royal  residence  might  well  befit, 
For  grandeur  or  for  use.     Long  wavy  wreaths 
Of  flowers,  that  fear'd  no  enemy  but  warmth, 

^  Blush'd  on  the  panels.     Mirror  needed  none 
Where  all  was  vitreous ;  but  in  order  due 
Convivial  table  and  commodious  seat 
(What  seem'd  at  least  commodious  seat)  were  there, 
Sofa  and  couch  and  high-built  throne  august. 

*  Anna.  This  Empress  constructed  a  palace  of  ice  on  the  bank  of  the  Neva  in 
1740.  It  lasted  from  January  to  March. 

T  Aristaeus,  the  son  of  Apollo  and  Gyrene,  a  water  nymph,  having  been  in  a  measure 
the  cause  of  Eurydice's  death,  was  punished  by  the  lossol  all  his  bees.  He  appealed  for 
help  to  his  mother,  weeping  on  the  banks  of  the  Peneus,  and  was  allowed  to  descend 
beneath  the  waves,  where  he  found  Gyrene  in  a  "  watery  palace,"  to  which  the  poet 
compares  the  ice  palace  of  the  Empress. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  325 

The  same  lubricity  was  found  in  all, 

And  all  was  moist  to  the  warm  touch  ;  a  scene 

Of  evanescent  glory,  once  a  stream, 

And  soon  to  slide  into  a  stream  again. 

Alas !  'twas  but  a  mortifying  stroke 

Of  undesigned  severity,  that  glanced 

(Made  by  a  monarch)  on  her  own  estate, 

On  human  grandeur  arid  the  courts  of  kings. 

'Twas  transient  in  its  nature,  as  in  show 

'Twas  durable  ;  as  worthless,  as  it  seem'd 

Intrinsically  precious  ;  to  the  foot 

Treacherous  and  false  ;  it  smiled,  and  it  was  cold.- 

Great  princes  have  great  playthings.  Some  have  play'd 
At  hewing  mountains  into  men,  and  some 
At  building  human  wonders  mountain  high. 
Some  have  amused  the  dull  sad  years  of  life, 
Life  spent  in  indolence,  and  therefore  sad, 
With  schemes  of  monumental  fame  ;  and  sought 
By  pyramids  and  mausolean  pomp, 
Short-lived  themselves,  to  immortalize  their  bones. 
Some  seek  diversion  in  the  tented  field, 
And  make  the  sorrows  of  mankind  their  sport. 
But  war's  a  game,  which,  were  tlniir  subjects  wise, 
Kings  would  not  play  at.     Nations  would  do  well 
To  extort  their  truncheons  from  the  puny  hands 
Of  heroes,  whose  infirm  and  baby  minds 
Are  gratified  with  mischief,  and  who  spoil, 
Because  men  suffer  it,  their  toy  the  world. 

When  Babel  was  confounded,  and  the  great 
Confederacy  of  projectors  wild  and  vain 
Was  split  into  diversity  of  tongue^. 
Then,  as  a  shepherd  separates  his  flock, 
These  to  the  upland,  to  the  vaiiey  those, 
God  drave  asunder,  and  assign'd  their  lot 
To  all  the  nations.     Ample  was  the  boon 
He  gave  them,  in  its  distribution  fair 
And  equal,  and  lie  bade  them  dwell  in  peace. 
Peace  was  awhile  their  care  :  they  plough 'd  and  eow'd 
And  reap'd  their  plenty  without  grudge  or  strife. 
But  violence  can  never  longer  sleep 
Than  human  passions  please.     In  every  heart 
Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war; 
Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze. 
Cain  had  already  shed  a  brother's  blood  ; 
The  deluge  wash'd  it  out ;  but  left  unquerich'd 
The  seeds  of  murder  in  the  breast  of  man. 


326  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

Soon,  by  a  righteous  judgment,  in  the  line 

Of  his  descending  progeny  was  found 

The  first  artificer  of  death  ;  the  shrewd 

Contriver  who  first  sweated  at  the  forge, 

And  forced  the  blunt  and  yet  unbloodied  steel 

To  a  keen  edge,  and  made  it  bright  for  war. 

Him,  Tubal  named,  the  Vulcan  of  old  times, 

The  sword  and  falchion  their  inventor  claim, 

And  the  first  smith  was  the  first  murderer's  son.* 

His  art  survived  the  waters  ;  and  ere  long, 

When  man  was  multiplied  and  spread  abroad 

In  tribes  and  clans,  and  had  begun  to  call 

These  meadows  and  that  range  of  hills  his  own, 

The  tasted  sweets  of  property  begat 

Desire  of  more  ;  and  industry  in  some 

To  improve  and  cultivate  their  just  demesne,- 

Made  others  covet  what  they  saw  so  fair. 

Thus  war  began  on  earth :  these  fought  for  spoil, 

And  those  in  self-defence.     Savage  at  first 

The  onset,  and  irregular.     At  length 

One  eminent  above  the  rest,  for  strength, 

For  stratagem,  or  courage,  or  for  all, 

Was  chosen  leader  ;  him  they  served  in  war, 

And  him  in  peace,  for  sake  of  warlike  deeds 

Reverenced  no  less.     Who  could  with  him  compare  ? 

Or  who  so  worthy  to  control  themselves 

As  he  whose  prowess  had  subdued  their  foes  ? 

Thus  war  affording  field  for  the  display 

Of  virtue,  made  one  chief,  whom  times  of  peace, 

Which  have  their  exigencies  too,  and  call 

For  skill  in  government,  at  length  made  king. 

King  was  a  name  too  proud  for  man  to  wear 

With  modesty  and  meekness  ;  and  the  crown, 

So  dazzling  in  their  eyes  who  set  it  on, 

Was  sure  to  intoxicate  the  brows  it  bound. 

It  is  the  abject  property  of  most, 

That  being  parcel  of  the  common  mass, 

And  destitute  of  means  to  raise  themselves, 

They  sink  and  settle  lower  than  they  need. 

They  know  not  what  it  is  to  feel  within 

A  comprehensive  faculty  that  grasps 

Great  purposes  with  ease,  that  turns  and  wields, 

Almost  without  an  effort,  plans  too  vast 

For  their  conception,  which  they  cannot  move. 


Gen.  iv.  22. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  327 


Conscious  of  impotence,  they  soon  grow  drunk 

With  gazing,  when  they  see  an  able  man 

Step  forth  to  notice  ;  and  besotted  thus, 

Build  him  a  pedestal,  and  say,  "  Stand  there, 

Arid  be  our  admiration  and  our  praise." 

They  roll  themselves  before  him  in  the  dust, 

Then  most  deserving  in  their  own  account 

When  most  extravagant  in  his  applause, 

As  if  exalting  him  they  raised  themselves. 

Thus  by  degrees,  self-cheated  of  their  sound 

And  sober  judgment,  that  he  is  but  man, 

They  demi-deify  and  fume  him  so, 

That  in  due  season  he  forgets  it  too. 

Inflated  and  astrut  with  self-conceit, 

He  gulps  the  windy  diet,  and  ere  long, 

Adopting  their  mistake,  profoundly  thinks 

The  world  was  made  in  vain,  if  not  for  him. 

Thenceforth  they  are  his  cattle  ;  drudges  born 

To  bear  his  burdens  ;  drawing  in  his  gears 

And  sweating  in  his  service,  his  caprice 

Becomes  the  soul  that  animates  them  all. 

lie  deems  a  thousand,  or  ten  thousand  lives, 

Spent  in  the  purchase  of  renown  for  him, 

An  easy  reckoning,  and  they  think  the  same. 

Thus  kings  were  first  invented,  and  thus  kings 

Were  burnish' d  into  heroes,  and  became 

The  arbiteis  of  this  terraqueous  swamp, 

Storks  among  frogs,  that  have  but  croak'd  and  died. 

Strange  that  such  folly  as  lifts  bloated  man 

To  eminence  fit  only  for  a  god, 

Should  ever  drivel  out  of  human  lips, 

Even  in  the  cradled  weakness  of  the  world ! 

Still  stranger  much,  than  when  at  length  mankind 

Had  reach 'd  the  sinewy  firmness  of  their  youth, 

And  could  discriminate  and  argue  well 

On  subjects  more  mysterious,  they  were  yet 

Babes  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  should  fear 

And  quake  before  the  gods  themselves  had  made. 

But  above  measure  strange,  that  neither  proof 

Of  sad  experience,  nor  examples  set 

By  some  whose  patriot  virtue  has  prevail'd, 

Can  even  now,  when  they  are  grown  mature 

In  wisdom,  and  with  philosophic  deeps 

Familiar,  serve  to  emancipate  the  lestl 

Such  dupes  are  men  to  custom*  and  so  prone 

To  reverence  what  is  ancient,  and  can  plead 


328  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

A  course  of  long  observance  for  its  use, 

That  even  servitude,  the  worst  of  ills, 

Because  deliver'd  down  from  sire  to  son, 

Is  kept  and  guarded  as  a  sacred  thing. 

But  is  it  fit,  or  can  it  bear  the  shock 

Of  rational  discussion,  that  a  man, 

Compounded  and  made  up  like  other  men 

Of  elements  tumultuous,  in  whom  lust 

And  folly  in  as  ample  measure  meet 

As  in  the  bosoms  of  the  slaves  he  rules, 

Should  be  a  despot  absolute,  and  boast 

Himself  the  only  freeman  of  his  land  ? 

Should,  when  he  pleases,  and  on  whom  he  will, 

Wage  war,  with  any  or  with  no  pretence 

Of  provocation  given  or  wrong  sustairi'd, 

And  force  the  beggarly  last  doit,  by  means 

That  his  own  humor  dictates,  from  the  clutch 

Of  poverty,  that  thus  he  may  procure 

His  thousands,  weary  of  penurious  life 

A  splendid  opportunity  to  die? 

Say  ye,  who  (with  less  prudence  than  of  old 

Jotham  ascribed  to  his  assembled  trees 

In  politic  convention)  put  your  trust 

In  the  shadow  of  a  bramble,  and  reclined 

In  fancied  peace  beneath  its  dangerous  branch, 

Rejoice  in  him,  and  celebrate  his  sway, 

Where  find  ye  passive  fortitude  ?     Whence  springs 

Your  self-denying  zeal  that  holds  it  good 

To  stroke  the  prickly  grievance,  and  to  hang 

His  thorns  with  streamers  of  continual  praise? 

We  too  are  friends  to  loyalty.     We  love 

The  king  who  loves  the  law,  respects  his  bounds, 

And  reigns  content  within  them  :  him  we  serve 

Freely  and  with  delight,  who  leaves  us  free  : 

But  recollecting  still  that  he  is  man, 

We  trust  him  not  too  far.     King  though  he  be, 

And  king  in  England  too,  he  may  be  weak, 

And  vain  enough  to  be  ambitious  still, 

May  exercise  amiss  his  proper  powers, 

Or  covet  more  than  freemen  choose  to  grant : 

Beyond  that  mark  is  treason.     He  is  ours, 

To  administer,  to  guard,  to  adorn  the  state, 

But  not  to  warp  or  change  it.     We  are  his, 

To  serve  him  nobly  in  the  common  cause, 

True  to  the  deatbf,  but  riot  to  be  his  slaves. 

Mark  now  the  difference,  ye  that  boast  your  lov* 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.          329 

Of  kings,  between  your  loyalty  and  ours : 
We  love  the  man,  the  paltry  pageant  you; 
We  the  cliief  patron  of  the  commonwealth, 
You  the  regardless  author  of  its  woes  ; 
We,  for  the  sake  of  liberty,  a  king, 
You  chains  and  bondage  for  a  tyrant's  sake. 
Our  love  is  principle,  and  has  its  root 
In  reason,  is  judicious,  manly,  free  ; 
Yours,  a  blind  instinct,  crouches  to  the  rod, 
And  licks  the  foot  that  treads  it  in  the  dust. 
Were  kingship  as  true  treasure  as  it  seems, 
Sterling,  and  worthy  of  a  wise  man's  wish, 
I  would  not  be  a  king  to  be  beloved 
Causeless,  and  daub'd  with  undiscerning  praise, 
Where  love  is  mere  attachment  to  the  throne, 
Not  to  the  man  who  fills  it  as  he  ought. 

Whose  freedom  is  by  sufferance,  and  at  will 
Of  a  superior,  he  is  never  free. 
Who  lives,  and  is  not  weary  of  a  life 
Exposed  to  manacles,  deserves  them  well. 
The  state  that  strives  for  liberty,  though  foil'd, 
And  forced  to  abandon  what  she  bravely  sought, 
Deserves  at  least  applause  for  her  attempt, 
And  pity  for  her  loss.     But  that's  a  cause 
Not  often  unsuccessful  ;  power  usurp'd 
Is  weakness  when  opposed  ;  conscious  of  wrong, 
'Tis  pusillanimous  and  prone  to  flight. 
But  slaves  that  once  conceive  the  glowing  thought 
Of  freedom,  in  that  hope  itself  possess 
All  that  the  contest  calls  for ;  spirit,  strength, 
The  scorn  of  danger,  and  united  hearts, 
The  surest  presage  of  the  good  they  seek.* 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats, 
Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land, 
Her  house  of  bondage,  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  avenged  on  Pharaoh — the  Bastile. 
Y3  horrid  towers,  the  abode  of  broken  hearts, 
Ye  dungeons,  and  ye  cages  of  despair, 
That  inonarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 
With  music  such  as  suits  their  sovereign  ears, 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men  ! 


*  The  author  hopes  that  he  shall  not  be  censured  for  unnecessary  warmth  upon  BO 
Interesting  a  subject.  He  is  aware  that  it  is  become  almost  fashionable  to  stigmatize 
•ueh  sentiments  **  no  better  than  empt  declamation1  but  it  ift  an  ill  symptom,  and 
peculiar  to  modr—*  times.— (C.) 


33°  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 

To  hear  that  ye  were  fall'n  at  last ;  to  know 

That  even  our  enemies  so  oft  employ'd 

In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free. 

For  he  who  values  liberty  confines 

His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 

No  narrow  bounds ;  her  cause  engages  him 

Wherever  pleaded.     'Tis  the  cause  of  man. 

There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 

Immured  though  unaccused,  condemn'd  untried, 

Cruelly  spared,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 

There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen 

By  him  of  Babylon,*  life  stands  a  stump, 

And  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass, 

Still  lives,  though  all  his  pleasant  boughs  are  gone. 

To  count  the  hour-bell,  and  expect  no  change  ; 

And  ever,  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard, 

Still  to  reflect,  that  though  a  joyless  note 

To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace, 

Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 

Account  it  music  ;  that  it  summons  some 

To  theatre  or  jocund  feast  or  ball ; 

The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  release 

From  labor ;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 

Its  long  delay,  feels  every  welcome  stroke 

Upon  his  heart-strings,  trembling  with  delight : — 

To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 

To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  woe 

Contrives,  hard  shifting  and  without  her  tools  i— 

To  read  engraven  on  the  mouldy  walls, 

In  staggering  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 

A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own  : — 

To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorged 

And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pamper'd  pest 

Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach, 

Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend : — 

To  wear  out  time  in  numbering  to  and  fro 

The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door, 

Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant, 

And  then  alternate,  with  a  sickly  hope 

By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 

Some  relish,  till  the  sum  exactly  found 

In  all  directions,  he  begins  again : — 

Oh  comfortless  existence  !  hemm'd  around 


Nebuchadnezzar. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  331 


With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel 

And  beg  for  exile,  or  the  pangs  of  death  ? 

That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow  man, 

Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 

Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 

Upon  the  endearments  of  domestic  life 

And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 

And  doom  him  for  perhaps  a  heedless  word 

To  barrenness,  and  solitude,  and  tears, 

Moves  indignation,  makes  the  name  of  king 

(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please/ 

As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god,* 

Adored  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy. 

'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume, 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it.     All  constraint, 
Except  what  wisdom  lays  on  evil  men, 
Ts  evil ;  hurts  the  faculties,  impedes 
Their  progres>  in  the  road  of  science  ;  blinds 
The  eyesight  <  f  discovery,  and  begets 
In  those  that  Miller  it  a  sordid  mind 
Bestial,  a  meagre  intellect,  unfit 
To  be  the  tenant  of  man's  noble  form. 
Thee  therefore  still,  blameworthy  as  thou  art, 
With  all  thy  loss  of  empire,  and  though  squeezed 
By  public  exigence  till  annual  food 
I-'ails  for  the  craving  hunger  of  the  state, 
Thee  I  account  still  happy,  and  the  chief 
Among  the  nations,  seeing  thou  art  free  1 
My  native  nook  of  earth  !    Thy  clime  is  rude, 
Replete  with  vapors,  and  disposes  much 
All  hearts  to  sadness,  and  none  more  than  mine ; 
Thine  unadu Iterate  mariners  are  less  soft 
And  plausible  than  social  life  requires, 
And  thou  hast  need  of  discipline  and  art 
To  give  thee  what  politer  France  receives 
From  nature's  bounty— that  humane  address 
And  sweetness,  without  which  no  pleasure  is 
In  converse,  either  starved  by  cold  reserve, 
Or  flush'd  with  fierce  dispute,  a  senseless  brawl  j 
Yet  being  free  I  love  thee  :  for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  feature  can  be  well  content, 


•  The  power  of  Evil.  Manes,  the  founder  of  the  sect  called  Manicheans,  taught 
tfiat  there  were  two  gods  of  equal  power—the  one  jr< '<>»!,  the  other  evil.  This  bereiy 
arose  in  the  third  century.  Arimanea  was  worshippt-u  from  fear.  See  Saracen'*  Bong 
'ufitooet'a  ••  Talisman,"  cliap.  i. 


332  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 


Disgraced  as  thou  hast  been,  poor  as  thou  art, 

To  seek  110  sublunary  rest  beside. 

But  once  enslaved,  farewell !     I  could  endure 

Chains  nowhere  patiently  ;  and  chains  at  home, 

Where  I  am  free  by  birthright,  not  at  all. 

Then  what  were  left  of  roughness  in  the  grain 

Of  British  natures,  wanting  its  excuse 

That  it  belongs  to  freemen,  would  disgust 

And  shock  me.     I  should  then  with  double  pain 

Peel  all  the  rigor  of  thy  fickle  clime  ; 

And  if  I  must  bewail  the  blessing  lost 

For  which  our  Hampdens  and  our  Sidneys  bled, 

I  would  at  least  bewail  it  under  skies 

Milder,  among  a  people  less  austere, 

In  scenes,  which,  having  never  known  me  free, 

Would  not  reproach  me  with  the  loss  I  felt. 

Do  I  forebode  impossible  events, 

And  tremble  at  vain  dreams  ?     Heaven  grant  J  may 

But  the  age  of  virtuous  politics  is  past, 

And  we  are  deep  in  that  of  cold  pretence. 

Patriots  are  grown  too  shrewd  to  be  sincere, 

And  we  too  wise  to  trust  them.     He  that  takes 

Deep  in  his  soft  credulity  the  stamp 

Design'd  by  loud  declaimers  on  the  part 

Of  liberty,  themselves  the  slaves  of  lust, 

Incurs  derision  for  his  easy  faith 

And  lack  of  knowledge,  and  with  cause  enough  : 

For  when  was  public  virtue  to  be  found 

Where  private  was  not?     Can  he  love  the  whole 

Who  loves  no  part  ?     He  be  a  nation's  friend 

Who  is,  in  truth,  the  friend  of  no  man  there  ? 

Can  he  be  strenuous  in  his  country's  cause, 

Who  slights  the  charities  for  whose  dear  sake 

That  country,  if  at  all,  must  be  beloved? 

'Tis  therefore  sober  and  good  men  are  sad 
For  England's  glory,  seeing  it  wax  pale 
And  sickly,  while  her  champions  wear  their  hearts 
So  loose  to  private  duty,  that  no  brain, 
Healthful  and  undisturb'd  by  factious  fumes, 
Can  dream  them  trusty  to  the  general  weal. 
Such  were  not  they  of  old,  whose  temper' d  blades 
Dispersed  the  shackles  of  usurp'd  control, 
And  hew'd  them  link  from  link.     Then  Albion's  sons 
Were  sons  indeed  :  they  felt  a  filial  heart 
Beat  high  within  them  at  a  mother's  wrongs, 
And  shining  each  in  his  domestic  sphere, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  333 


Shone  brighter  still,  once  call'd  to  public  view. 
'Tis  therefore  many,  whose  sequester'd  lot 
Forbids  their  interference,  looking  on, 
Anticipate  perforce  some  dire  event ; 
And  seeing  the  old  castle  of  the  state, 
That  promised  once  more  firmness,  so  assail'd 
That  all  its  tempest-beaten  turrets  shake, 
Stand  motionless,  expectants  of  its  fall. 
All  has  its  date  below  ;  the  fatal  hour 
Was  register'd  in  heaven  ere  time  began. 
We  turn  to  dust,  and  all  our  mightiest  works 
Die  too  :  the  deep  foundations  that  we  lay, 
Time  ploughs  them  up,  and  not  a  trace  remains, 
We  build  with  what  we  deem  eternal  rock  \ 
A  distant  age  asks  where  the  fabric  stood  ; 
And  in  the  dust,  sifted  and  search'd  in  vain, 
The  indiscoverable  secret  sleeps. 

But  there  is  yet  a  liberty  unsung 
By  poets,  and  by  senators  u upraised, 
Which  monarch*  cannot  grant,  nor  all  the  powers 
Of  earth  and  hell  confederate  take  away  ; 
A  liberty  which  persecution,  fraud, 
Oppression,  prisons,  have  no  power  to  bind  ; 
Which  whoso  tastes  can  be  enslaved  no  more. 
'Tis  liberty  of  heart,  derived  from  Heaven, 
Bought  with  His  blood  who  gave  it  to  mankind, 
And  seal'd  with  the  same  token.     It  is  held 
By  charter,  and  that  charter  sanction'd  sure 
By  the  unimpeachable  and  awful  oath 
And  promise  of  a  God.     His  other  gifts 
All  bear  the  royal  stamp  that  speaks  them  His, 
And  are  august,  but  this  transcends  them  all. 
His  other  works,  the  visible  display 
Of  all-creating  energy  and  might, 
Are  grand,  no  doubt,  and  worthy  of  the  word 
That,  finding  an  interminable  space 
Unoccupied,  has  fill'd  the  void  so  well, 
And  made  so  sparkling  what  was  dark  before. 
But  these  are  not  His  glory.     Man,  'tis  true, 
Smit  with  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  scene, 
Might  well  suppose  the  Artificer  Divine 
Meant  it  eternal,  had  He  not  Himself 
Pronounced  it  transient,  glorious  as  it  is, 
And  still  designing  a  more  glorious  far, 
Doom'd  it  as  insufficient  for  His  praise. 
These  therefore  are  occasional  and  pass  \ 


334  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

Form'd  for  the  confutation  of  the  fool, 
Whose  lying  heart  disputes  against  a  God  ; 
That  office  served,  they  must  be  swept  away. 
Not  so  the  labors  of  His  love  :  they  shine 
In  other  heavens  than  these  that  we  behold, 
And  fade  not.     There  is  paradise  that  fears 
No  forfeiture,  and  of  its  fruits  He  sends 
Large  prelibation  oft  to  saints  below. 
Of  these  the  first  in  order,  and  the  pledge 
And  confident  assurance  of  the  rest, 
Is  liberty  ;  a  flight  into  his  arms, 
Ere  yet  mortality's  fine  threads  give  way, 
A  clear  escape  from  tyrannizing  lust, 
And  full  immunity  from  penal  woe. 

Chains  are  the  portion  of  revolted  man, 
Stripes,  and  a  dungeon  ;  and  his  body  serves 
The  triple  purpose.     In  that  sickly,  foul, 
Opprobrious  residence  he  finds  them  all. 
Propense  his  heart  to  idols,  he  is  held 
In  silly  dotage  on  created  things, 
Careless  of  their  Creator.     And  that  low 
And  sordid  gravitation  of  his  powers 
To  a  vile  clod,  so  draws  him,  with  such  force 
Resistless  from  the  centre  he  should  seek, 
That  he  at  last  forgets  it.     All  his  hopes 
Tend  downwards  ;  his  ambition  is  to  sink, 
To  reach  a  depth  profounder  still,  and  still 
Profounder,  in  the  fathomless  abyss 
Of  folly,  plunging  in  pursuit  of  death. 
But  ere  he  gain  the  comfortless  repose 
He  seeks,  and  acquiescence  of  his  soul 
In  heaven-renouncing  exile,  he  endures — 
What  does  he  not  ?  from  lusts  opposed  in  vain, 
And  self-reproaching  conscience.     He  foresees 
The  fatal  issue  to  his  health,  fame,  peace, 
Fortune  and  dignity  ;  the  loss  of  all 
That  can  ennoble  man,  and  make  frail  life, 
Short  as  it  is,  supportable.     Still  worse, 
Far  worse  than  all  the  plagues  with  which  his  sins 
Infect  his  happiest  moments,  he  forebodes 
Ages-of  hopeless  misery  ;  future  death, 
And  death  still  future  :  not  a  hasty  stroke, 
Like  that  which  sends  him  to  the  dusty  grave, 
But  unrepeatable  enduring  death. 
Scripture  is  still  a  trumpet  to  his  fears  ; 
What  none  can  prove  a  forgery,  may  be  true  ; 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  335 


What  none  but  bad  men  wish  exploded,  must. 

That  scruple  checks  him.     Riot  is  not  loud 

Nor  drunk  enough  to  drown  it.     In  the  midst 

Of  laughter  his  compunctions  are  sincere, 

And  he  abhors  the  jest  by  which  he  shines. 

Remorse  begets  reform.     His  master-lust 

Falls  first  before  his  resolute  rebuke, 

And  seems  dethroned  and  vanquish'd.     Peace  ensues, 

But  spurious  and  short-lived,  the  puny  child 

Of  self-congratulating  pride,  begot 

On  fancied  innocence.     Again  he  falls, 

And  fights  again  ;  but  finds  his  best  essay 

A  presage  ominous,  portending  still 

Its  own  dishonor  by  a  worse  relapse, 

Till  nature,  unavailing  nature,  foil'd 

So  oft,  and  wearied  in  the  vain  attempt, 

Scoffs  at  her  own  performance.     Reason  now 

Takes  part  with  appetite,  and  pleads  the  cause 

Perversely,  which  of  late  she  so  condemned  ; 

With  shallow  shifts  and  old  devices,  worn 

And  tattered  in  the  service  of  debauch, 

Covering  his  shame  from  his  offended  sight. 

"  llath  God  indeed  given  appetites  to  man, 
And  stored  the  earth  so  plenteously  with  means 
To  gratify  the  hunger  of  His  wish, 
Arid  doth  lie  reprobate  and  will  He  damn 
The  use  of  His  own  bounty  ?  making  first 
So  frail  a  kind,  and  then  enacting  laws 
So  strict,  that  less  than  perfect  must  despair  ? 
Falsehood  !  which  whoso  but  suspects  of  truth 
Dishonors  God,  and  makes  a  slave  of  man. 
Do  they  themselves,  who  undertake  for  hire 
The  teacher's  office,  and  dispense  at  large 
Their  weekly  dole  of  edifying  strains, 
Attend  to  their  own  music  ?  have  they  faith 
In  what  with  such  solemnity  of  tone 
And  gesture  they  propound  to  our  belief  ? 
Nay, — conduct  hath  the  loudest  tongue.     The  voice 
Is  but  an  instrument  on  which  the  priest 
May  play  what  tune  he  pleases.     In  the  deed, 
The  unequivocal  authentic  deed, 
We  find  sound  argument,  we  read  the  heart." 

Such  reasonings  (if  that  name  must  needs  belong 
To  excuses  in  which  reason  has  no  part) 
Serve  to  compose  a  spirit  well  inclined 
To  live  on  terms  of  amity  with  vice, 


336  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

And  sin  without  disturbance.     Often  urged 

(As  often  as  libidinous  discourse 

Exhausted,  he  resorts  to  solemn  themes 

Of  theological  and  grave  import,) 

They  gain  at  last  his  unreserved  assent ; 

Till  harden'd  his  heart's  temper  in  the  forge 

Of  lust,  and  on  the  anvil  of  despair, 

He  slights  the  strokes  of  conscience.     Nothing  moves, 

Or  nothing  much,  his  constancy  in  ill ; 

Vain  tampering  has  but  fostered  his  disease  ; 

'Tis  desperate,  and  he  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death. 

Haste  now,  philosopher,  and  set  him  free. 

Charm  the  deaf  serpent  wisely.     Make  him  hear 

Of  rectitude  and  fitness  ;  moral  truth 

How  lovely,  and  the  moral  sense  how  sure 

Consulted  and  obey'd,  to  guide  his  steps 

Directly  to  THE  FIRST  AND  ONLY  FAIR. 

Spare  not  in  such  a  cause.     Spend  all  the  powers 

Of  rant  and  rhapsody  in  virtue's  praise  j 

Be  most  sublimely  good,  verbosely  grand, 

And  with  poetic  trappings  grace  thy  prose, 

Till  it  outmantle  all  the  pride  of  verse.— 

Ah,  tinkling  cymbal  and  high-sounding  brass, 

Smitten  in  vain  !  such  music  cannot  charm 

The  eclipse  that  intercepts  truth's  heavenly  beam, 

And  chills  and  darkens  a  wide  wandering  soul. 

The  still  small  voice  is  wanted.     He  must  speak, 

Whose  word  leaps  forth  at  once  to  its  effect, 

Who  calls  for  things  that  are  not,  ajnd  they  come. 

Grace  makes  the  slave  a  freeman.     'Tis  a  change 
That  turns  to  ridicule  the  turgid  speech 
And  stately  tone  of  moralists,  who  boast, 
As  if,  like  him  of  fabulous  renown, 
They  had  indeed  abjlity  to  smooth 
The  shag  of  savage  nature,  and  were  each 
An  Orpheus,  and  omnipotent  in  song. 
But  transformation  of  apostate  man 
From  fool  to  wise,  from  earthly  to  divine, 
Is  work  for  Him  that  made  him.     He  alone, 
And  He  by  means  in  philosophic  eyes 
Trivial  and  worthy  of  disdain,  achieves 
The  wonder  ;  humanizing  what  is  brute 
In  the  lost  kind,  extracting  from  the  lips 
Of  asps  their  venom,  overpowering  strength 
By  weakness,  and  hostility  by  love. 

Patriots  have  toil'd,  and  in  their  country's  cause 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  337 

Bled  nobly,  and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 

Receive  proud  recompense.     We  give  in  charge 

Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.     The  historic  muse, 

Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 

To  latest  times ;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 

Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass 

To  guard  them,  and  to  immortalize  her  trust. 

But  fairer  wreaths  are  due,  though  never  paid, 

To  those  who,  posted  at  the  shrine  of  truth, 

Have  fallen  in  her  defence.     A  patriot's  blood, 

Well  spent  in  such  a  strife,  may  earn  indeed, 

And  for  a  time  ensure  to  his  loved  land, 

The  sweets  of  liberty  and  equal  laws  ; 

But  martyrs  straggle  for  a  brighter  prize. 

And  win  it  with  more  pain.     Their  blood  is  shed 

In  confirmation  of  the  noblest  claim, 

Our  claim  to  feed  upon  immortal  truth, 

To  walk  with  God,  to  be  divinely  free, 

To  soar,  and  to  anticipate  the  skies. 

Yet  few  remember  them.     They  lived  unknown 

Till  Persecution  dragg'd  them  into  fame. 

And  chased  them  up  to  heaven.     Their  ashes  Hew 

— No  marble  tells  us  whither.     With  their  names 

No  bard  embalms  and  sanctifies  his  song  ; 

And  history,  so  warm  on  meaner  them 

Is  cold  on  this.     She  execrates  indeed 

The  tyranny  that  doom'd  them  to  the  fire, 

But  gives  the  glorious  sufferers  little  praise.* 

He  is  the  freeman  whom  the  truth  makes  free, 
And  all  are  slaves  beside.     There's  not  a  chain 
That  hellish  foes  confederate  for  his  harm 
Can  wind  around  him,  but  he  casts  it  off 
With  as  much  ease  as  Samson  his  green  withes. 
He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  nature,  and  though  poor  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight, 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 
His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  valleys  his, 
And  the  resplendent  rivers.     His  to  enjoy 
With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 
But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired, 
Can  lift  to  heaven  an  unpresumptuous  eye, 
And  smiling  say — "  My  Father  made  them  all !  " 
Are  they  not  his  by  a  peculiar  right, 

*  Se«  Hume,  cap.  37.  (C.) 


.338  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

And  by  an  emphasis  of  interest  his, 

Whose  eye  they  fill  with  tears  of  holy  joy, 

Whose  heart  with  praise,  and  whose  exalted  mind 

With  worthy  thoughts  of  that  unwearied  love 

That  plann'd,  and  built,  and  still  upholds  a  world 

So  clothed  with  beauty,  for  rebellious  man? 

Yes — ye  may  fill  your  garners,  ye  that  reap 

The  loaded  soil,  and  ye  may  waste  much  good 

In  senseless  riot ;   but  ye  will  riot  find 

In  feast  or  in  the  chase,  in  song  or  dance, 

A  liberty  like  his,  who  uniinpeach'd 

Of  usurpation,  and  to  no  man's  wrong, 

Appropriates  nature  as  his  Father's  work, 

And  has  a  richer  use  of  yours,  than  you. 

He  is  indeed  a  freeman  ;  free  by  birth 

Of  no  mean  city,  plann'd  or  e'er  the  hills 

Were  built,  the  fountains  open'd,  or  the  sea 

With  all  his  roaring  multitude  of  waves. 

His  freedom  is  the  same  in  every  state ; 

And  no  condition  of  this  changeful  life, 

So  manifold  in  cares,  whose  every  day 

Brings  its  own  evil  with  it,  makes  it  less : 

For  he  has  wings  that  neither  sickness,  pain, 

Nor  penury  can  cripple  or  confine. 

No  nook  so  narrow  but  he  spreads  them  there 

With  ease,  and  is  at  large.     The  oppressor  holds 

His  body  bound,  but  knows  not  what  a  range 

His  spirit  takes,  unconscious  of  a  chain, 

And  that  to  bind  him  is  a  vain  attempt 

Whom  God  delights  in,  and  in  whom  He  dwells. 

Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  wouldst  taste 
His  works.     Admitted  once  to  His  embrace, 
Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before ; 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed,  and  thine  heart, 
Made  pure,  shall  relish  with  divine  delight 
Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 
Brutes  graze  the  mountain-top  with  faces  prone 
Arid  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them  ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 
Ruminate  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main. 
Man  views  it  arid  admires,  but  rests  content 
With  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise, 
But  not  its  Author.     Unconcern'd  who  form'd 
j  p i-.adise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.  339 

And  such  well-pleased  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 

Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touch'd  from  Heaven, 

And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 

To  read  His  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world, 

Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 

Not  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  His 

Much  more  who  fashion' d  it,  he  gives  it  praise ; 

Praise  that  from  earth  resulting  as  it  ought 

To  earth's  acknowledged  sovereign,  finds  at  once 

Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 

The  soul  that  sees  Him,  or  receives  sublimed 

New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  to  employ 

More  worthy  the  powers  she  own'd  before, 

Discerns  in  all  things,  what  with  stupid  gaze 

Of  ignorance  till  then  she  overlook'd, 

A  ray  of  heavenly  light  gilding  all  forms 

Terrestrial  in  the  vast  and  the  minute, 

The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God 

Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing, 

And  wheels  His  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 

Much  conversant  with  Heaven,  she  often  holds, 

With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man, 

That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp, 

Sweet  conference  ;  inquires  what  strains  were  they 

With  which  Heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 

To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth, 

Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 

Shouted  for  joy. — "  Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts 

That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 

Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud, 

If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 

Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

And  systems  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

Have  reach'd  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 

Favor'd  as  ours,  transgressors  from  the  womb, 

And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doom'd  to  rise, 

And  to  possess  a  brighter  heaven  than  yours  ? 

As  one  who  long  detain 'd  on  foreign  shores 

Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

His  country's  weather-bleach' d  and  batter'd  rocks, 

From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 

Radiant  with  joy  towards  the  happy  land  ; 

So  I  with  animated  hopes  behold, 

And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordain' d  to  guide  the  embodied  spirit  hom«, 


340  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK. 

From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 

That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

And  that  infused  from  Heaven  must  thither  tend." 

So  reads  he  nature  whom  the  lamp  of  truth 
Illuminates.     Thy  lamp,  mysterious  Word ! 
Which  whoso  sees  no  longer  wanders  lost 
With  intellects  bemazed  in  endless  doubt, 
But  runs  the  road  of  wisdom.     Thou  hast  built, 
With  means  that  were  not  till  by  Thee  employ'd, 
Worlds  that  had  never  been  hadst  Thou  in  strength 
Been  less,  or  less  benevolent  than  strong. 
They  are  Thy  witnesses,  who  speak  Thy  power 
And  goodness  infinite,  but  speak  in  ears 
That  hear  not,  or  receive  not  their  report. 
In  vain  Thy  creatures  testify  of  Thee 
Till  Thou  proclaim  Thyself.     Theirs  is  indeed 
A  teaching  voice  ;  but  'tis  the  praise  of  Thine 
That  whom  it  teaches  it  makes  prompt  to  learn, 
And  with  the  boon  gives  talents  for  its  use. 
Till  Thou  art  heard,  imaginations  vain 
Possess  the  heart,  arid  fables  false  as  hell, 
Yet  deem'd  oracular,  lure  down  to  death 
The  uninform'd  and  heedless  souls  of  men. 
We  give  to  Chance,  blind  Chance,  ourselves  as  blind, 
The  glory  of  Thy  work,  which  yet  appears 
Perfect  and  unimpeachable  of  blame, 
Challenging  human  scrutiny,  and  proved 
Then  skilful  most  when  most  severely  judged. 
But  Chance  is  not ;  or  is  not  where  thou  reign'st : 
Thy  providence  forbids  that  fickle  power 
(If  power  she  be  that  works  but  to  confound) 
To  mix  her  wild  vagaries  with  Thy  laws. 
Yet  thus  we  dote,  refusing  while  we  can 
Instruction,  and  inventing  to  ourselves 
Gods  such  as  guilt  makes  welcome  ;  gods  that  sleep, 
Or  disregard  our  follies,  or  that  sit 
Amused  spectators  of  this  bustling  stage. 
Thee  we  reject,  unable  to  abide 
Thy  purity,  till  pure  as  Thou  art  pure, 
Made  such  by  Thee,  we  love  Thee  for  that  cause 
For  which  we  shunn'd  and  hated  Thee  before. 
Then  we  are  free  :  then  liberty  like  day 
Breaks  on  the  soul,  and  by  a  flash  from  Heaven 
Fires  all  the  faculties  with  glorious  joy. 
A  voice  is  heard  that  mortal  ears  hear  not 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  MORNING  WALK.          341 

Till  Thou  hast  touch'd  them  ;  'tis  the  voice  of  song, 
A  loud  Hosanna  sent  from  all  Thy  works, 
Which  he  that  hears  it  with  a  shout  repeats, 
And  adds  his  rapture  to  the  general  praise. 
In  that  blest  moment,  Nature,  throwing  wide 
Her.  veil  opaque,  discloses  with  a  smile 
The  Author  of  her  beauties,  who,  retired 
Behind  His  own  creation,  works  unseen 
By  the  impure,  arid  hears  His  power  denied. 
Thou  art  the  source  and  centre  of  all  minds, 
Their  only  point  of  rest,  eternal  Word  ! 
From  Thee  departing,  they  are  lost  and  rove 
At  random,  without  honor,  hope,  or  peace. 
From  Thee  is  all  that  soothes  the  life  of  man, 
His  high  endeavor,  and  his  glad  success, 
His  strength  to  suffer,  and  his  will  to  serve. 
But  oh,  Thou  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good, 
Thou  art  of  all  Thy  gifts  Thyself  the  crown  ! 
Give  what  Thou  canst,  without  Thee  we  are  poor  ; 
And  with  Thee  rich,  take  what  Thou  wilt  away. 


342  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


BOOK  VI.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


ARGUMENT. 

at  a  distance— Their  effect — A  fine  noon  in  winter — A  sheltered  walk — Meditation 
better  than  books — Our  familiarity  with  the  course  of  nature  makes  it  appear  less- 
wonderful  than  it  is — The  transformation  that  spring  effects  in  a  shrubbery  de- 
scribed— A  mistake  concerning  the  course  of  nature  corrected — God  maintains  it  by 
an  unremitted  act — The  amusements  fashionable  at  this  hour  of  the  day  reproved 
— Animals  happy,  a  delightful  sight — Origin  of  cruelty  to  animals — That  it  is  a 
great  crime  proved  from  Scripture — That  proof  illustrated  by  a  tale — A  line  drawn 
between  the  lawful  and  unlawful  destruction  of  them— Their  good  and  useful  prop- 
erties insisted  on — Apology  for  the  encomiums  bestowed  by  the  author  upon 
animals— Instances  of  man's  extravagant  praise  of  man — The  groans  of  the  crea- 
tion shall  have  an  end — A  view  taken  of  the  restoration  of  all  things — An  invoca- 
tion and  an  invitation  of  Him  who  shall  bring  it  to  pass— The  retired  man  vindi- 
cated from  the  charge  of  uselessness — Conclusion. 

THERE  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds, 

And  as  the  mind  is  pitch'd  the  ear  is  pleased 

With  melting  airs  or  martial,  brisk  or  grave. 

Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 

Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 

How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells 

Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 

In  cadence  sweet !  now  dying  all  away, 

Now  pealing  loud  again  and  louder  still, 

Clear  and  sonorous  as  the  gale  comes  on. 

With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
ft  Where  memory  slept.     Wherever  I  have  heard 
'/A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs, 
y  And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 

Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes, 

That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 

(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 

The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 

Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems, 

It  seem'd  not  always  short  ;  the  rugged  path, 

And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and  forlorn, 

Moved  many  a  sigh  at  its  disheartening  length. 

Yet  feeling  present  evils,  while  the  past 

Faintly  impress  the  mind,  or  not  at  all, 

How  readily  we  wish  time  spent  revoked, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.    34.1 

That  we  might  try  the  ground  again,  where  once 

(Through  inexperience  as  we  now  perceive) 

We  miss'd  that  happiness  we  might  have  found ! 

Some  friend  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son's  best  friend, 

A  father,  whose  authority,  in  show 

When  most  severe,  and  mustering  all  its  force, 

Was  but  the  graver  countenance  of  love  ; 

Whose  favor,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might  lower, 

And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice, 

But  had  a  blessing  in  its  darkest  frown, 
/threatening  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 
//We  loved,  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 
/  (jhat  rear'd  us.     At  a  thoughtless  age  allured 
\  By  every  gilded  folly,  we  renounced 

His  sheltering  side,  and  wilfully  forewent 
That  converse  which  we  now  in  vain  regret. 
vilow  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 
/The  boy's  neglected  sire  !  a  mother  too, 
yThat  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  still, 
Might  he  clemancl  them  at  the  gates  of  death. 
Sorrow  has,  since  they  went,  subdued  and  tamed 
The  playful  humor  ;  he  could  now  endure 
(Himself  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears) 
And  feel  a  parent's  presence  no  restraint. 
But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth 
Till  time  has  stolen  away  the  slighted  good, 
Is  cause  of  half  the  poverty  we  feel, 
And  makes  the  world  the  wilderness  it  is. 
The  few  that  pray  at  all  pray  oft  amiss, 
Arid,  seeking  grace  to  improve  the  prize  they  hold, 
Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

The  night  was  winter  in  its  roughest  mood, 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage,  v  r'' 

And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue    ]     \f/(^J 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck          /      * 
The  dazzling  splendor  of  the  scene  below.  / 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale, 
And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled  tower 
Whence  all  the  music.     I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms, 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 


344 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


The  roof  though  movable  through  all  its  length 

As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 

And  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 

The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 

The  rejibreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 

With  slender  notes  and  more  than  half  suppress'd  : 

Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 

From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 

From  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice, 

That  tinkle  in  the  wither' d  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 

Charms  more  than  silence.     Meditation  here 

May  think  down  hours  to  moments.     Here  the  heart 

May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 

And  learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 

Have  ofttimes  no  connection.     K: 


In  heads  replete  with  thoughts ...$f._other ; 
Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own, 
Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass, 
The  mere  materials  with  which  wisdom  builds, 
Till  smoothed  and  squared  and  fitted  to  its  place, 
Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  to  enrich. 
KnQwlejlgeJs  prpud  that  he  has  learn'd  so  much ; 
Wisdom  is  humble  that  heltnows  no  more. 
Books  are  notjseldpni  talismans  and  spells, 
By  which  tnemagic  art  of  shrewder  wits 
Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthrall'd. 
Some,  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 
/Surrender  judgment  hoodwink'd.     Some  the  style 
/  Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 
Of  error  leads  them,  by ji  tune  entranced. 
While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weaOoTBear 
The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought, 
And  swallowing  therefore,  without  pause  or  choice, 
The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 
But  trees,  and  rivulets  whose  rapid  course 
Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer, 
And  sheepwalks  populous  with  bleating  lambs, 
And  lanes  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 
Peeps  through  the  moss  that  clothes  the  hawthorn  root, 
Deceive  no  student.     Wisdom  there,  and  truth, 
Not  shy  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won 
By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 
The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves. 


TtiE  TASK.—  THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  AiOOfr.  345 

What  prodigies  can  power  divine  perform 
More  grand  than  it  produces  year  by  year, 
And  all  in  sight  of  inattentive  man  ? 
Familiar  with  the  effect  we  slight  the  cause, 
And  in  the  constancy  of  nature's  course, 
The  regular  return  of  genial  months, 
And  renovation  of  a  faded  world, 
See  naught  to  wonder  at.     Should  God  again, 
As  once  in  Gibeon,  interrupt  the  race 

Of  the  undeviating  and  punctual  sun,  }  &v 

How  would  the  world  admire !  but  speaks  it  less  }/   vi 


An  agency  divine,  to  make  him  know  ft  ^  ^ 

His  moment  when  to  sink  and  when  to  rise, 


JW 

Age  after  age,  than  to  arrest  his  course  ?       / 

All  we  behold  is  miracle,  but  seen         \ 

So  duly,  all  is  miracle  in  vain.  J 

Where  now  the  vital  energy  that  moved, 

While  summer  was,  the  pure  and  subtle  lymph 

Through  the  imperceptible  meandering  veins 

Of  leaf  and  flower  ?     It  sleeps  ;  and  the  icy  touch 

Of  unprolific  winter  has  impress'd 

A  cold  stagnation  on  the  intestine  tide. 

But  let  the  months  go  round,  a  few  short  months, 

Arid  all  shall  be  restored.     These  naked  shoots, 

Barren  as  lances,  among  which  the  wind 

Makes  wintry  music,  sighing  as  it  goes, 

Shall  put  their  graceful  foliage  on  again, 

Arid  more  aspiring,  and  with  ampler  spread, 

Shall  boast  new  charms,  and  more  than  they  have  lost 

Then,  each  in  its  peculiar  honors  clad, 

Shall  publish,  even  to  the  distant  eyev 

Its  family  and  tribe.     Laburnum  rich 

In  streaming  gold  ;  syringa  ivory  pure  ; 

The  scentless  and  the  scented  rose,  this  red 

And  of  an  humbler  growth,  the  other  tall,* 

And  throwing  up  into  the  darkest  gloom 

Of  neighboring  cypress,  or  more  sable  yew, 

Her  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf 

That  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave ; 

The  lilac  various  in  array,  now  white, 

Now  sanguine,  and  her  beauteous  head  now  set 

With  purple  spikes  pyramidal,  as  if 

Studious  of  ornament,  yet  unresolved 

Which  hue  she  most  approved,  she  chose  then  all ; 

*  Guelder  rose.    (0.) 


346 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


Copious  of  flowers  the  woodbine,  pale  and  wan, 
But  well  compensating  her  sickly  looks 
With  never-cloying  odors,  early  and  late  ; 
Hypericum  *  all  bloom,  so  thick  a  swarm 
Of  flowers  like  flies  clothing  her  slender  rods 
That  scarce  a  leaf  appears  j  mezereon,  too, 
Though  leafless,  well  attired,  and  thick  beset 
With  blushing  wreaths  investing  every  spray ; 
Althaea  f  with  the  purple  eye ;  the  broom, 
Yer.ow  and  bright  as  bullion  unalloy'd 
Her  blossoms  ;  and  luxuriant  above  all 
The  jasmine,  throwing  wide  her  elegant  sweets, 
The  deep  dark  green  of  whose  unvarnish'd  leaf 
Makes  more  conspicuous,  and  illumines  more 
The  bright  profusion  of  her  scatter 'd  stars. 

!"*  These  have  been,  and  these  shall  be  in  their  day  ; 
And  all  this  uniform,  uncolor'd  scene 
Shall  be  dismantled  of  its  fleecy  load, 
And  filial]  into  variety  again. 
From  dearth  to  plenty,  and  from  death  to  life, 
Is  Nature's  progress  when  she  lectures  man 
In  heavenly  truth  ;  evincing  as  she  makes 
The  grand  transition,  that  there  lives  and  works 
A  soul  in  all  thiiigs,  aiici  that  soul  is  (-rod. 
Tffe  beauties  of  the  witclerness  are  His, 
That  make  so  gay  the  solitary  place 
Where  no  eye  sees  them.     And  the  fairer  forms 
That  cultivation  glories  in  are  His, 
He  sets  the  bright  procession  on  its  way, 
And  marshals  all  the  order  of  the  year ; 
He  marks  the  bounds  which  Winter  may  not  pass, 
And  blunts  his  pointed  fury  ;  in  its  case, 
Russet  and  rude,  folds  up  the  tender  germ 
Uninjured,  with  inimitable  art ; 
And,  ere  one  flowery  season  fades  and  dies, 
Designs  the  blooming  wonders  of  the  next. 

Some  say  that  in  the  origin  of  things, 
When  all  creation  started  into  birth, 
The  infant  elements  received  a  law 
From  which  they  swerve  not  since.     That  under  force 
Of  that  controlling  ordinance  they  move, 
And  need  not  His  immediate  hand  who  first 
Prescribed  their  course,  to  regulate  it  now. 
Thus  dream  they,  and  contrive  to  save  a  God 


I 


*  The  common  St.  John's  wort. 


T  The  mallow. 


TUP:  TASK.— THE  WINTER   \VALK'  A  7  A'OOAT.  347 


The  incuinbrance  of  His  own  concerns,  and  spare 

The  great  Artificer  of  all  that  move- 

The  stress  of  a  continual  act,  the  pain 

Of  unrein itted  vigilance  and  care, 

As  too  laborious  and  severe  a  task. 

So  man,  the  moth,  is  not  afraid,  it  seems. 

Tn  span  Omnipotence^  and  measure  might 

That  knows  no  measure,  by  the  scanty  rule 

And  standard  of  his  own,  that  is  to-day, 

And  is  not  ere  to-morrow's  sun  go  down. 

But  how  should  matter  occupy  a  charge, 

Dull  as  it  is,  and  satisfy  a  law 

So  vast  in  it*  demands,  unless  impell'd 

To  ceaseless  service  by  a  ceaseless  force, 

And  under  pressure  of  some  conscious  cause? 

TheLord  of  all,  Himself  t.hrniifHi  n.ll  rjiffnsgdr 

Sustains  and  is  the  life  of  all  that  lives, 

Natun-  i>  but  a  naiiu'  \'<>r  an  « 

Whosecause  is  God.     He  feeds  the  secret  fire 

By  which  the  mighty  process  is  maintained, 

Who  sleeps  not  is  not  weary  ;  in  whose  sight 

Slow-circling  ages  are  as  transient  da}>  ; 

Whose  w  >rk  is  without  labor  ;   whose  designs 

No  flaw  deforms,  no  difficulty  thwarts  ; 

And  M  hose  beneficence  no  charge  exhausts. 

Him  blind  antiquity  profaned,  not  served, 

With  self-taught  rites,  and  under  various  names, 

Female  and  male,  Pomona,  Pales,  Pan, 

And  Flora  and  Vertumnus  ;  peopling  earth 

With  tutelary  goddesses  and  gods 

That  were  not,  and  commending  as  they  would 

To  each  some  province,  garden,  field,  or  grove. 

But  all  are  under  One.     One  spirit—  His 

Who  \vore__thg_plaited  thdrns~with  bleeding  brows — 

Rules  universal  nature.     Not  a  flower 

But  siiO'Wb  soiile1  touch  in  freckle,  streak,  or  stain, 

Of  His  unrivalPd  pencil.     He  inspires 

Thpjy  hff1tny  ™inr*  nnri  imparts  their  hues, 

And  bathes  their  eves  with  nectar,  and  includes, 

In  grains  as  countless  as  the  seaside  sands, ~" 

The  form  witirwfiich  He  sprin  ill  tfre~~e~arth. 

Happy  who  walks  with  Him  !  whom  what  he  finds 

Of  flavor  or  of  scent  in  fruit  or  flower, 

Or  what  he  views  of  beautiful  or  grand 

In  nature,  from  the  broad,  majestic  oak 

To  the  green  blade  that  twinkles  in  the  sun, 


34* 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


Prompts  with  remembrance  of  a  present  God. 

His  presence,  who  made  all  so  fair,  perceived, 

Makes  all  still  fairer.     As  with  Him  no  scene 

Is  dreary,  so  with  Him  all  seasons  please. 

Though  winter  had  been  none,  had  man  been  true, 

Aiid  earth  be  punish'd  for  its  tenant's  sake, 

Yet  not  in  vengeance  ;  as  this  smiling  sky, 

So  soon  succeeding  such  an  angry  night, 

And  these  dissolving  snows,  and  this  clear  stream 

Recovering  fast  its  liquid  music,  prove. 

Who,  then,  that  has  a  mind  well  strung  and  tuned 
To  contemplation,  and  within  his  reach 
A  scene  so  friendly  to  his  favorite  task, 
Would  waste  attention  at  the  checker'd  board, 
His  host  of  wooden  warriors  to  arid  fro 
Marching  and  countermarching,  with  an  eye 
As  fix'd  as  marble,  with  the  forehead  ridged 
And  furrow'd  into  storms,  and  with  a  hand 
Trembling,  as  if  eternity  were  hung 
In  balance  on  his  conduct  of  a  pin  ? 
Nor  envies  he  aught  more  their  idle  sport, 
Who  pant  with  application  misapplied 
To  trivial  toys,  and  pushing  ivory  balls 
Across  a  velvet  level,  feel  a  joy 
Akin  to  rapture,  when  the  bauble  finds 
Its  destined  goal  of  difficult  access. 
Nor  deems  he  wiser  him.  who  gives  his  noon 
To  miss,  the  mercer's  plague,  from  shop  to  shop 
Wandering,  and  littering  with  unfolded  silks 
The  polish'd  counter,  and  approving  none, 
Or  promising  with  smiles  to  call  again. 
Nor  him,  who  by  his  vanity  seduced, 
And  soothed  into  a  dream  that  he  discerns 
The  difference  of  a  Guido  from  a  daub, 
Frequents  the  crowded  auction.     Station'd  there 
As  duly  as  the  Langford  *  of  the  show, 
.With  glass  at  eye,  and  catalogue  in  hand, 
And  tonerue  accomplish'd  in  the  fulsome  cant 
And  pedantry  that  coxcombs  learn  with  ease, 
Oft  as  the  price-deciding  hammer  falls, 
He  notes  it  in  his  book,  then  raps  his  box, 
Swears  'tis  a  bargain,  rails  at  his  hard  fate 
That  he  has  let  it  pass — but  never  bids. 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 


*  A  celebrated  auctioneer  of  books,  pictures,  and  articles  of  vertu. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  349 

The  sun  proceeds,  I  wander  :  neither  mist, 

For  freezing  sky,  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 

Nor  stranger  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 

Even  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year, 

That  calls  the  unwonted  villager  abroad 

With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train, 

To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead, 

And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 

A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook, 

These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  timorous  hare, 

Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest, 

Scarce  shuns  me  ;  and  the  stockdove,  unalarm'd, 

Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 

His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach. 

Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  soim3  lonely  elm 

That  age  or  injury  has  hallo w'd  deep, 

Where,  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves, 

He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 

To  frisk  a  while,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun, 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play. 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 

Ascends  the  neighboring  beech  ;  there  whisks  his  brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps  and  scolds  aloud, 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feigif  d  alarm, 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce. 

The  heart  is  hard  in  nature,  and  unfit 
For  human  fellowship,  as  being  void 
Of  sympathy,  and  therefore  dead  alike 
To  love  and  friendship  both,  that  is  riot  pleased 
With  sight  of  animal's  enjoying  life, 
Nor  feels  their  happiness  augment  his  own. 
The  bounding  fawn,  that  darts  across  the  glade 
When  none  pursues,  through  mere  delight  of  heart, 
And  spirits  buoyant  with  excess  of  glee ; 
The  horse,  as  wanton  and  almost  as  fleet, 
That  skims  the  spacious  meadow  at  full  speed, 
Then  stops  and  snorts,  and  throwing  high  his  heels 
Starts  to  the  voluntary  race  again  ; 
The  very  kine  that  gambol  at  high  noon, 
The  total  herd  receiving  first  from  one 
That  leads  the  dance  a  summons  to  be  gay, 
Though  wild  their  strange  vagaries,  and  uncouth 
Their  efforts,  yet  resolved  with  one  consent 
To  give  such  act  and  utterance  as  they  may 
To  ecstacy  too  big  to  be  suppressed  ; 
These  and  a  thousand  images  of  bliss, 


35°  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 

With  which  kind  nature  graces  every  scene 
Where  cruel  man  defeats  not  her  design, 
Impart  to  the  benevolent,  who  wish 
All  that  are  capable  of  pleasure  pleased, 
A  far  superior  happiness  to  theirs, 

comfort  of  a  reasonable  joy. 
Man  scarce  had  risen,  obedient  to  His  call 
Who  form'd  him  from  the  dust,  his  future  grave 
When  he  was  crown'd  as  never  king  was  since. 
God  set  the  diadem  upon  his  head, 
Arid  angel  choirs  attended.     Wondering  stood 
The  new-made  monarch,  while  before  him  pass'd, 
All  happy,  and  all  perfect  in  their  kind, 
The  creatures,  summon'd  from  their  various  haunts 
To  see  their  sovereign,  and  confess  his  sway. 
Vast  was  his  empire,  absolute  his  power, 
Or  bounded  only  by  a  law  whose  force 
'Twas  his  sublirnest  privilege  to  feel 
Arid  own,  the  law  of  universal  love. 
He  ruled  with  meekness,  they  obey'd  with  joy ; 
No  cruel  purpose  lurk'd  within  his  heart, 
And  no  distrust  of  his  intent  in  theirs. 
So  Eden  was  a  scene  of  harmless  sport, 
Where  kindness  on  his  part  who  ruled  the  whole 
Begat  a  tranquil  confidence  in  all, 
And  fear  as  yet  was  not,  nor  cause  for  fear. 
But  sin  marr'd  all ;  and  the  revolt  of  man, 
That  source  of  evil  not  exhausted  yet, 
Was  punish'd  with  revolt  of  his  from  him. 
Garden  of  God,  how  terrible  the  change 
Thy  groves  and  lawns  then  witness'd  !     Every  heart. 
Each  animal  of  every  name,  conceived 
A  jealousy  and  an  instinctive  fear, 
And,  conscious  of  some  danger,  either  fled 
Precipitate  the  loathed  abode  of  man, 
Or  growl' d  defiance  in  such  angry  sort, 
As  taught  him  too  to  tremble  in  his  turn. 
Thus  harmony  and  family  accord 
Were  driven  from  Paradise  ;  and  in  that  hour 
The  seeds  of  cruelty,  that  since  have  sweird 
To  such  gigantic  and  enormous  growth, 
Were  sown  in  human  nature's  fruitful  soil. 
Hence  date  the  persecution  and  the  pain 
That  man  inflicts  on  all  inferior  kinds, 
Regardless  of  their  plaints.     To  make  him  sport, 
To  gratify  the  frenzy  of  his  wrath. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  351 

Or  his  base  gluttony,  are  causes  good 

And  just  in  his  account,  why  bird  and  beast 

Should  suffer  torture,  and  the  streams  be  dyed 

With  blood  of  their  inhabitants  impaled 

Earth  groans  beneath  the  burden  of  a  war 

Waged  with  defenceless  innocence,  while  he, 

Not  satisfied  to  prey  on  all  around, 

Adds  tenfold  bitterness  to  death,  by  pan^s 

Needless,  and  first  torments  ere  he  devours. 

Now  happiest  they  that  occupy  the  scenes 

The  most  remote  from  his  abhorr'd  resort. 

Whom  once,  as  delegate  of  God  on  earth, 

They  fear'd,  and  as  His  perfect  image  loved. 

The  wilderness  is  theirs,  with  all  its  caves, 

Its  hollow  gbns,  its  thickets,  and  its  plains 

Un visited  by  man.    There  they  are  free, 

And  howl  and  roar  as  likes  them,  uncontroll'd, 

Nor  ask  his  leave  to  slumber  or  to  play. 

Woe  to  the  tyrant,  if  he  dare  intrude 

Within  the  confines  of  their  wild  domain, 

The  lion  tells  him — "  I  am  monarch  here  ! ' 

And  if  he  spare  him,  spares  him  on  the  terms 

Of  royal  mercy,  and  through  generous  scorn 

To  rend  a  victim  trembling  at  his  foot. 

In  measure,  as  by  force  of  instinct  drawn, 

Or  by  necessity  constrain'd,  they  live, 

Depende.it  upon  man,  those  in  his  fields, 

These  at  his  crib,  and  some  beneath  his  roof ; 

They  prove  too  often  at  how  dear  a  rate 

He  sells  protection.     Witness  at  his  foot 

The  spaniel  dying  for  some  venial  fault, 

Under  dissection  of  the  knotted  scourge  ; 

Witness,  the  patient  ox,  with  stripes  and  yells 

Driven  to  the  slaughter,  goaded  as  he  runs 

To  madness,  while  the  savage  at  his  heels 

Laughs  at  the  frantic  sufferer's  fury  spent 

Upon  the  guiltless  passenger  o'erthrown. 

He  too  is  witness,  noblest  of  the  train 

That  wait  on  man,  the  flight-performing  horse : 

With  unsuspecting  readiness  he  takes 

His  murderer  on  his  back,  and  push'd  all  day, 

With  bleeding  sides,  and  flanks  that  heave  for  life, 

To  the  far-distant  goal,  arrives  arid  dies. 

So  little  mercy  shows  who  needs  so  much  ! 

Does  law,  so  jealous  in  the  cause  of  man, 

Denounce  no  doom  on  the  delinquent  ?    None. 


352  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 

He  lives,  and  o'er  his  brimming  beaker  boasts 

(As  if  barbarity  were  high  desert) 

The  inglorious  feat,  and  clamorous  in  praise 

Of  the  poor  brute,  seems  wisely  to  suppose 

The  honors  of  his  matchless  horse  his  own. 

But  many  a  crime  deem'd  innocent  in  earth 

Is  register'd  in  heaven,  and  these,  no  doubt, 

Have  each  their  record,  with  a  curse  annex'd. 

Man  may  dismiss  compassion  from  his  heart, 

But  God  will  never.     When  he  charged  the  Jew 

To  assist  his  foe's  down-fallen  beast  to  rise,* 

Arid  when  the  bush-exploring  boy  that  seized 

The  young,  to  let  the  parent  bird  go  free,f 

Proved  He  not  plainly  that  His  meaner  works 

Are  yet  His  care,  and  have  an  interest  all- 

All  in  the  universal  Father's  love? 

On  Noah,  and  in  him  on  all  mankind, 

The  charter  was  conferr'd,  by  which  we  hold 

The  flesh  of  animals  in  fee,  and  claim 

O'er  all  we  feed  on,  power  of  life  and  death.J 

But  read  the  instrument,  and  mark  it  well : 

The  oppression  of  a  tyrannous  control 

Can  find  no  warrant  there.     Feed,  then,  and  yield 

Thanks  for  thy  food.     Carnivorous,  through  sin, 

Feed  on  the  slain,  but  spare  the  living  brute. 

The  Governor  of  all,  Himself  to  all 
So  bountiful,  in  whose  attentive  ear 
The  unfledged  raven  and  the  lion's  whelp 
Plead  not  in  vain  for  pity  on  the  pangs 
Of  hunger  unassuaged,  has  interposed, 
Not  seldom,  His  avenging  arm,  to  smite 
The  injurious  trampler  upon  Nature's  law, 
That  claims  forbearance  even  for  a  brute. 
He  hates  the  hardness  of  a  Balaam's  heart ; 
And  prophet  as  he  was,  he  might  not  strike 
The  blameless  animal,  without  rebuke. 
On  which  he  rode.     Her  opportune  offence 
Saved  him,  or  the  unrelenting  seer  had  died. 
He  sees  that  human  equity  is  slack 
To  interfere,  though  in  so  just  a  cause, 
And  makes  the  task  His  own.     Inspiring  dumb 
And  helpless  victims  with  a  sense  so  keen 
Of  injury,  with  such  knowledge  of  their  strength, 
And  such  sagacity  to  take  revenge, 


*  Exodus  xxiii.  5.  t  Deuteronomy  xxii.  6,  7.  t  Genesis  ix.  2,  3. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT NOOM  353 

That  oft  the  beast  has  seem'd  to  judge  the  man. 

An  ancient,  not  a  legendary  tale, 

By  one  of  sound  intelligence  rehearsed 

(If  such  who  plead  for  Providence  may  seem 

In  modern  eyes),  shall  make  the  doctrine  clear. 

Where  England,  stretch'd  towards  the  setting  sun, 
Narrow  and  long,  o'erlooks  the  western  wave, 
Dwelt  young  Misagathus  ;  a  scorner  he 
Of  God  and  goodness,  atheist  in  ostent, 
Vicious  in  act,  in  temper  savage-fierce. 
He  journey'd  ;  and  his  chance  was  as  he  went 
To  join  a  traveller  of  far  different  not<-, 
Evander,  famed  for  piety,  for  years 
Deserving  honor,  but  for  wisdom  more. 
Fame  had  not  left  the  venerable  man 
A  stranger  to  the  manners  of  the  youth, 
Whose  face  too  was  familiar  to  his  view. 
Their  way  was  on  the  margin  of  the  land, 
O'er  the  green  summit  of  the  rocks  whose  base 
Beats  back  the  roaring  surge,  scarce  heard  so  high 
The  charity  that  warm'd  his  heart  was  moved 
At  sight  of  the  man-monster.     With  a  smile 
Gentle,  and  affable,  and  full  of  grace, 
As  fearful  of  offending  whom  he  wish'd 
Much  to  persuade,  he  plied  his  ear  with  truths 
Not  harshly  thunder'd  forth,  or  rudely  press'd, 
But,  like  his  purpose,  gracious,  kind,  and  sweet, 
"  And  dost  thou  dream,''  tin1  impenetrable  man 
Exclaim'd,  *'  that  me,  the  lullabies  of  age, 
And  fantasies  of  dotards  such  as  thou, 
Can  cheat,  or  move  a  moment's  fear  in  me  ? 
Mark  now  the  proof  I  give  thee,  that  the  brave 
Need  no  such  aids  as  superstition  lends, 
To  steel  their  hearts  against  the  dread  of  death." 
He  spoke,  and  to  the  precipice  at  hand 
Push'd  with  a  madman's  fury.     Fancy  shrinks, 
And  the  blood  thrills  and  curdles  at  the  thought 
Of  such  a  gulf  as  he  design'd  his  grave. 
But  though  the  felon  on  his  back  could  dare 
The  dreadful  leap,  more  rational  his  steed 
Declined  the  death,  and  wheeling  swiftly  round, 
Or  e'er  his  hoof  had  press'd  the  crumbling  verge, 
Baffled  his  rider,  saved  against  his  will. 
The  frenzy  of  the  brain  may  be  redress'd 
By  medicine  well  applied,  but  without  grace 
The  heart's  insanity  admits  no  cure. 

23 


354  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOOK. 

Enraged  the  more  by  what  might  have  reform' d 

His  horrible  intent,  again  he  sought 

Destruction  with  a  zeal  to  be  destroy'd, 

With  sounding  whip,  and  rowrels  dyed  in  blood. 

But  still  in  vain.     The  Providence  that  meant 

A  longer  date  to  the  far  nobler  beast, 

Spared  yet  again  the  ignobler  for  his  sake. 

And  now,  his  prowess  proved,  and  his  sincere 

Incurable  obduracy  evinced, 

His  rage  grew  cool ;  and  pleased  perhaps  to  have  earn'd 

So  cheaply  the  renown  of  that  attempt, 

With  looks  of  some  complacence  he  resumed 

His  road,  deriding  much  the  blank  amaze 

Of  good  Evander,  still  where  he  was  left 

Fix'd  motionless,  arid  petrified  with  dread. 

So  on  they  fared ;  discourse  on  other  themes 

Ensuing,  seern'd  to  obliterate  the  past, 

And  tamer  far  for  so  much  fury  shewn 

(As  is  the  course  of  rash  and  fiery  men), 

The  rude  companion  smiled,  as  if  transform'd. 

But  'twas  a  transient  calm.     A  storm  was  near, 

An  unsuspected  storm.     His  hour  was  come. 

The  impious  challenger  of  power  divine 

Was  now  to  learn  that  Heaven,  though  slow  to  wrath. 

Is  never  with  impunity  defied. 

His  horse,  as  he  had  caught  his  master's  mood, 

Snorting,  and  starting  into  sudden  rage, 

Unbidden,  and  not  now  to  be  controll'd, 

Rush'd  to  the  cliff,  and  having  reached  it,  stood. 

At  once  the  shock  unseated  him :  he  flew 

Sheer  o'er  the  craggy  barrier,  and  immersed 

Deep  in  the  flood,  found,  when  he  sought  it  not, 

The  death  he  had  deserved,  and  died  alone. 

So  God  wrought  double  justice ;  made  the  fool 

The  victim  of  his  own  tremendous  choice, 

And  taught  a  brute  the  way  to  safe  revenge. 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 
(Though  graced  with  polish'd  manners  and  f  ne  sense, 
Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 
An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 
That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path  ; 
But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarn'd, 
Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 
The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 
And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  355 


A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose,  the  alcove, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory,  may  die  : 

A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds 

And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field  : 

There  they  are  privileged  :  and  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong, 

Disturbs  the  economy  of  nature's  realm, 

Who  when  she  form'd,  design'd  them  an  abode. 

The  sum  is  this:  if  man's  convenience,  health, 

Or  safety  interfere,  his  rights  and  claims 

Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 

Else  they  are  all — the  meanest  things  that  are, 

As  free  to  live  and  to  enjoy  that  life, 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first, 

Who  in  his  sovereign  wisdom  made  them  all. 

Ye  therefore  who  love  mercy,  teach  your  sons 

To  love  it  too.     The  spring-time  of  our  years 

Is  soon  dishonor'd  and  defiled  in  most 

By  budding  ills,  that  ask  a  prudent  hand 

To  check  them.     But,  alas  !  none  sooner  shoots, 

If  unrestrain'd,  into  luxuriant  growth, 

Than  cruelty,  most  devilish  of  them  all. 

Mercy  to  him  that  shews  it,  is  the  rule 

And  righteous  limitation  of  its  act, 

By  which  Heaven  moves  in  pardoning  guilty  man  : 

And  he  that  shews  none,  being  ripe  in  years, 

And  conscious  of  the  outrage  he  commits, 

Shall  seek  it  and  not  find  it  in  his  turn. 

Distinguished  much  by  reason,  and  still  more 
By  our  capacity  of  grace  divine, 
From  creatures  that  exist  but  for  our  sake, 
Which  having  served  us,  perish,  we  are  held 
Accountable,  and  God.  some  future  day, 
Will  reckon  with  us  roundly  for  the  abuse 
Of  what  he  deems  no  mean  or  trivial  trust. 
Superior  as  we  are,  they  yet  depend 
Not  more  on  human  help,  than  we  on  theirs. 
Their  strength,  or  speed,  or  vigilance,  were  given 
In  aid  of  our  defects      In  some  are  found 
Such  teachable  and  apprehensive  parts, 
That  man's  attainments  in  his  own  concerns, 
Match' d  with  the  expertness  of  the  brutes  in  theirs. 
Are  oft  times  vanquished  and  thrown  far  behind. 


356  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 

Some  show  that  nice  sagacity  of  smell, 

And  read  with  such  discernment  in  the  port 

And  figure  of  the  man,  his  secret  aim, 

That  oft  we  owe  our  safety  to  a  skill 

We  could  not  teach,  and  must  despair  to  learn. 

But  learn  we  might,  if  not  too  proud  to  stoop 

To  quadruped  instructors,  many  a  good 

And  useful  quality,  and  virtue  too, 

Rarely  exemplified  among  ourselves  ; 

Attachment  never  to  be  wean'd  or  changed 

By  any  change  of  fortune,  proof  alike 

Against  unkindness,  absence,  and  neglect ; 

Fidelity  that  neither  bribe  nor  threat 

Can  move  or  warp  ;  and  gratitude  for  small 

And  trivial  favors,  lasting  as  the  life, 

And  glistening  even  in  the  dying  eye. 

Man  praises  man.     Desert  in  arts  or  arms 
Wins  public  honor ;  and  ten  thousand  sit 
Patiently  present  at  a  sacred  song, 
Commemoration-mad  ;  content  to  hear 
(Oh  wonderful  effect  of  music's  power!) 
Messiah's  eulogy,  for  Handel's  sake. 
But  less,  methinks,  than  sacrilege  might  serve- 
(For  was  it  less — what  heathen  would  have  dared 
To  strip  Jove's  statue  of  his  oaken  wreath, 
And  hang  it  up  in  honor  of  a  man  ?) 
Much  less  might  serve,  when  all  that  we  design 
Is  but  to  gratify  an  itching  ear, 
And  give  the  day  to  a  musician's  praise. 
Remember  Handel  ?     Who  that  was  not  born 
Deaf  as  the  dead  to  harmony,  forgets, 
Or  can,  the  more  than  Homer  of  his  age  ? 
Yes — we  remember  him  ;  and  while  we  praise 
A  talent  so  divine,  remember  too 
That  His  most  holy  Book  from  whom  it  came. 
Was  never  meant,  was  never  used  before, 
To  buckram  out  the  memory  of  a  man. 
But  hush  ! — the  muse  perhaps  is  too  severe, 
And  with  a  gravity  beyond  the  size 
And  measure  of  the  offence,  rebukes  a  deed 
Less  impious  than  absurd,  and  owing  more 
To*want  of  judgment  than  to  wrong  design. 
So  in  the  chapel  of  old  Ely  House, 
When  wandering  Charles,*  who  meant  to  be  the  third, 

*  The  Prince  Charles  Edward  Stuart 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON 

Had  fled  from  William,*  and  the  news  was  fresh, 

The  simple  clerk,  but  loyal,  did  announce, 

And  eke  did  rear  right  merrily,  t\v<>  i^taves, 

Sung  to  the  praise  and  glory  of  King  George. 

Man  praises  man  ;  and  Grarrick's  memory  next, 

When  time  hath  somewhat  niellow'd  it,  arid  made 

The  idol  of  our  worship  while  he  lived, 

The  god  of  our  idolatry  once  more, 

Shall  have  its  altar  ;  arid  the  world  shall  go 

In  pilgrimage  to  bow  before  his  shrine. 

The  theatre,  too  small,  shall  suffocate 

Its  squeezed  contents,  and  more  than  it  admits 

Shall  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 

Ungratified.     For  there  some  noble  lord 

Shall  stuff  his  shoulders  with  King  Richard's  bunch, 

Or  wrap  himself  in  Hamlet's  inky  cloak, 

And  strut  and  storm  and  straddle,  stamp  and  stare, 

To  shew  the  world  how  Garrick  did  not  act. 

For  Grarrick  was  a  worshipper  himself ; 

He  drew  the  liturgy,  and  framed  the  rites 

And  solemn  ceremonial  of  the  day, 

And  call'd  the  world  to  worship  on  the  banks 

Of  Avon  famed  in  song.f     Ah,  pleasant  proof 

That  piety  has  still  in  human  hearts 

Some  place,  a  spark  or  two  not  yet  extinct. 

The  mulberry-tree  was  hung  with  blooming  wreaths  ; 

The  mulberry-tree  stood  centre  of  the  dance ; 

The  mulberry-tree  was  hymn' d  with  dulcet  airs  ; 

And  from  his  touchwood  trunk  the  mulberry-tree 

Supplied  such  relics  as  devotion  holds 

Still  sacred,  and  preserves  with  pious  care. 

So  'twas  a  hallow'd  time  :  decorum  reign 'd, 

And  mirth  without  offence.     No  few  return'd, 

Doubtless  much  edified,  and  all  refresh' d. 

—Man  praises  man.     The  rabble  all  alive, 

From  tippling  benches,  cellars,  stalls,  and  styes, 

Swarm  in  the  streets.     The  statesman  of  the  day, 

A  pompous  and  slow-moving  pageant,  comes. 

Some  shout  him,  and  some  hang  upon  his  car 

To  gaze  in  his  eyes,  and  bless  him.     Maidens  wave 

Their  kerchiefs,  and  old  women  weep  for  joy  ; 

While  others,  not  so  satisfied,  unhorse 

The  gilded  oquipau'e.  and  turning  loose 


357 


*  The  Duke  of  Cumberland.    The  news  of  the  victory  at  CuDoden  reached  London 
on  Sunday  morning. 

1  Alluding  to  Garrick's  Shakspeare  Commemoration  held  at  Stratford-on-Av«n,  1769. 


358  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


His  steeds,  usurp  a  place  they  well  deserve. 

Why  ?  what  has  charm'd  them  ?  Hath  he  saved  the  state  ? 

No.     Doth  he  purpose  its  salvation  ?     No. 

Enchanting  novelty,  that  moon  at  full, 

That  finds  out  every  crevice  of  the  head 

That  is  not  sound  and  perfect,  hath  in  theirs 

Wrought  this  disturbance.     But  the  wane  is  near, 

And  his  own  cattle  must  suffice  him  soon. 

Thus  idly  do  we  waste  the  breath  of  praise, 

And  dedicate  a  tribute,  in  its  use 

And  just  direction  sacred,  to  a  thing 

Doom'd  to  the  dust,  or  lodged  already  there. 

Encomium  in  old  time  was  poet's  work  \ 

But  poets  having  lavishly  long  since 

Exhausted  all  materials  of  the  art, 

The  task  now  falls  into  the  public  hand ; 

And  I,  contented  with  an  humble  theme, 

Have  pour'd  my  stream  of  panegyric  down 

The  vale  of  nature,  where  it  creeps  and  winds 

Among  her  lovely  works,  with  a  secure 

And  unambitious  course  reflecting  clear 

If  not  the  virtues,  yet  the  worth  of  brutes. 

Arid  I  am  recompensed,  and  deem  the  toils 

Of  poetry  not  lost,  if  verse  of  mine 

May  stand  between  an  animal  and  woe, 

And  teach  one  tyrant  pity  for  his  drudge. 

The  groans  of  nature  in  this  nether  world, 
Which  Heaven  has  heard  for  ages,  have  an  end. 
Foretold  by  prophets,  and  by  poets  sung 
Whose  fire  was  kindled  at  the  prophets'  lamp, 
The  time  of  rest,  the  promised  sabbath,  comes. 
Six  thousand  years  of  sorrow  have  well-nigh 
Fulfill' d  their  tardy  and  disastrous  course 
Over  a  sinful  world  ;  and  what  remains 
Of  this  tempestuous  state  of  human  things, 
Is  merely  as  the  working  of  a  sea 
Before  a  calm,  that  rocks  itself  to  rest : 
For  He  whose  car  the  winds  are,  and  the  clouds 
The  dust  that  waits  upon  His  sultry  march, 
When  sin  hath  moved  Him,  and  His  wrath  is  hot, 
Shall  visit  earth  in  mercy  ;  shall  descend 
Propitious,  in  His  chariot  paved  with  love, 
And  what  His  storms  have  blasted  and  defaced 
For  man's  revolt,  shall  with  a  smile  repair. 

Sweet  is  the  harp  of  prophecy  ;  too  sweet 
Not  to  be  wrong' d  by  a  mere  mortal  touch  j 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  359 

Nor  can  the  wonders  it  records  be  sung 
To  meaner  music,  and  not  suffer  loss. 
But  when  a  poet,  or  when  one  like  me, 
Happy  to  rove  amouj.  poetic  flowers, 
Though  poor  in  skill  10  rear  them,  lights  at  last 
On  some  fair  theme,  some  theme  divinely  fair, 
Such  is  the  impulse  and  the  spur  he  feels 
To  give  it  praise  proportioned  to  its  worth, 
That  not  to  attempt  it,  arduous  as  he  deems 
The  labor,  were  a  task  more  arduous  still. 
Oh  scenes  surpassing  fable,  and  yet  true, 
Scenes  of  accomplish'd  bliss  '  which  who  can  see 
Though  but  in  distant  prospect,  and  not  feel 
His  soul  refresh'd  with  foretaste  of  the  joy  ? 
Rivers  of  gladness  water  all  the  earth, 
And  clothe  all  climes  with  beauty  ;  the  reproach 
Of  barrenness  is  past.     The  fruitful  field 
Laughs  with  abundance  :  and  the  land  once  lean, 
Or  fertile  only  in  its  own  disgrace, 
Exults  to  see  its  thistly  curse  repealed. 
The  various  seasons  woven  into  one, 
And  that  one  season  an  eternal  spring, 
The  garden  feels  no  blight,  and  needs  no  fence, 
For  there  is  none  to  covet,  all  are  full. 
The  lion,  and  the  libbard,*  and  the  bear 
Graze  with  the  fearless  flocks  ;  all  bask  at  noon 
Together,  or  all  gambol  in  the  shade 
Of  the  same  grove,  and  drink  one  common  stream. 
Antipathies  are  none.     No  foe  to  man 
Lurks  in  the  serpent  now  :  the  mother  sees, 
And  smiles  to  see,  her  infant's  playful  hand 
Stretch'd  forth  to  dally  with  the  crested  worm, 
To  stroke  his  azure  neck,  or  to  receive 
The  lambent  homage  of  his  arrowy  tongue. 
All  creatures  worship  man,  and  all  mankind 
One  Lord,  one  Father.     Error  has  no  place  : 
That  creeping  pestilence  is  driven  away  : 
The  breath  of  Heaven  has  chased  it.     In  the  heart 
No  passion  ton*  hes  a  discordant  string, 
But  all  is  harmony  and  love.     Disease 
Is  not ;  the  pure  and  uncontaminate  1)1  ood 
Holds  its  due  course,  nor  fears  the  frost  of  age. 
One  song  employs  all  nations,  and  all  cry, 
"  Worthy  the  Lamb,  for  He  was  slain  for  us  I " 

•  Leopard ;  llbba;  '  is  an  old  English  word  found  in  Spenser  and  Shakspeare. 


360  THE  TASK-— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON- 

The  dwellers  in  the  vales  and  on  the  rocks 
Shout  to  each  other,  and  the  mountain-tops 
From  distant  mountains  catch  the  flying  joy, 
Till,  nation  after  nation,  taught  the  strain, 
Earth  rolls  the  rapturous  hosanna  round. 
Behold  the  measure  of  the  promise  fill'd  \ 
See  Salem  built,  the  labor  of  a  God ! 
Bright  as  a  sun  the  sacred  city  shines ; 
All  kingdoms  and  all  princes  of  the  earth 
Flock  to  that  light ;  the  glory  of  all  lands 
Flows  into  her  ;  unbounded  is  her  joy, 
And  endless  her  increase.     Thy  rams  are  there, 
Nebaioth,  and  the  flocks  of  Kedar  there  ;* 
The  looms  of  Ormus,  and  the  mines  of  Ind, 
The  Sabba's  spicy  groves,  pay  tribute  there. 
Praise  is  in  all  her  gates  :  upon  her  walls, 
And  in  her  streets,  and  in  her  spacious  courts, 
Is  heard  salvation.     Eastern  Java  there 
Kneels  with  the  native  of  the  furthest  west, 
And  ^Ethiopia  spreads  abroad  the  hand 
And  worships.     Her  report  has  travell'd  forth 
Into  all  lands.     From  every  clime  they  come 
To  see  thy  beauty,  and  to  share  thy  joy, 
O  Sion  I  an  assembly  such  as  earth 
Saw  never,  such  as  heaven  stoops  down  to  see. 

Thus  heavenward  all  things  tend.     For  all  were  once 
Perfect,  and  all  must  be  at  length  restored. 
So  God  has  greatly  purposed  \  who  would  else 
In  his  dishonor' d  works  Himself  endure 
Dishonor,  and  be  wronged  without  redress. 
Haste  then,  and  wheel  away  a  shatter'd  world, 
Ye  slow-revolving  seasons  1  we  would  see 
(A  sight  to  which  our  eyes  are  strangers  yet) 
A  world  that  does  not  dread  and  hate  His  laws, 
And  suffer  for  its  crime  ;  would  learn  how  fair 
The  creature  is  that  God  pronounces  good, 
How  pleasant  in  itself  what  pleases  Him. 
Here  every  drop  of  honey  hides  a  sting  ; 
Worms  wind  themselves  into  our  sweetest  flowers, 
And  even  the  joy  that  haply  some  poor  heart 
Derives  from  Heaven,  pure  as  the  fountain  is, 
Is  sullied  in  the  stream  ;  taking  a  taint 
From  touch  of  human  lips,  at  best  impure, 


•Nebaioth  and  Kedar,  the  sons  of  Ishmael,  and  progenitors  of  the  Arabs,  in  the 
prophetic  scripture  here  alluded  to,  may  be  reasonably  considered  as  representatives 
of  the  Gentiles  at  large. — (C.) 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  361 

Oh  for  a  world  in  principle  as  chaste 
As  this  is  gross  and  selfish  1  over  which 
Custom  and  prejudice  shall  bear  no  sway 
That  govern  all  things  here,  shouldering  aside 
The  meek  and  modest  truth,  and  forcing  her 
To  seek  a  refuge  from  the  tongue  of  strife 
In  nooks  obscure  far  from  the  ways  of  men ; 
Where  violence  shall  never  lift  the  sword, 
Nor  cunning  justify  the  proud  man's  wrong, 
Leaving  the  poor  no  remedy  but  tears  ; 
Where  he  that  fills  an  office,  shall  esteem 
The  occasion  it  presents  of  doing  good 
More  than  the  perquisite  ;  where  law  shall  speak 
Seldom,  and  never  but  as  wisdom  prompts 
And  equity :  not  jealous  more  to  guard 
A  worthless  form,  than  to  decide  aright; 
Where  fashion  shall  not  sanctify  abuse, 
Nor  smooth  good-breeding  (supplemental  grace) 
With  lean  performance  ape  the  work  of  love. 

Come  then,  and,  added  to  Thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  the  crown  of  all  the  earth, 
Thou  who  alone  art  worthy  I     It  was  Thine 
By  ancient  covenant,  ere  Nature's  birth, 
Arid  Thou  hast  made  it  Thine  by  purchase  since, 
And  overpaid  its  value  with  Thy  blood. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  Thee  king ;  and  in  their  hearts 
Thy  title  is  engraven  with  a  pen 
Dipp'd  in  the  fountain  of  eternal  love. 
Thy  saints  proclaim  Thee  king ;  and  Thy  delay 
Gives  courage  to  their  foes,  who,  could  they  see 
The  dawn  of  Thy  last  advent,  long  desired, 
Would  creep  into  the  bowels  of  the  hills, 
And  flee  for  safety  to  the  falling  rocks. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  world  is  tired 
Of  its  own  taunting  question,  ask'd  so  long, 
"  Where  is  the  promise  of  your  Lord's  approach?" * 
The  infidel  has  shot  his  bolts  away, 
Till  his  exhausted  quiver  yielding  none, 
He  gleans  the  blunted  shafts  that  have  recoil'd, 
And  aims  them  at  the  shield  of  Truth  again* 
The  veil  is  rent,  rent  too  by  priestly  hands, 
That  hides  divinity  from  mortal  eyes, 
And  all  the  mysteries  to  faith  proposed. 
Insulted  and  traduced,  are  cast  aside 

*  2  St.  Peter  iii.  4. 


362  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 


As  useless,  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats. 
They  now  are  d:em'd  the  faithful,  and  are  praised, 
Who  constant  only  in  rejecting  Thee, 
Deny  thy  Godhead  with  a  martyr's  zeal, 
And  quit  their  office  for  their  error's  sake.* 
Blind  and  in  love  with  darkness  \  yet  even  these 
Worthy,  compared  with  sycophants,  who  kneel 
Thy  name  adoring,  and  then  preach  Thee  man  ! 
So  fares  Thy  Church.     But  how  Thy  Church  may  fare 
The  world    akes  little  thought ;  who  will  may  preach, 
And  what  they  will.     All  pastors  are  alike 
To  w  ndering  sheep,  resolved  to  follow  none. 
Two  gods  divide  them  all — Pleasure  and  Gain  : 
For  these  they  live,  they  sacrifice  to  these, 
And  in  their  service  wage  perpetual  war 
With  conscience  and  with  Thee.     Lust  in  their  hearts, 
And  mischief  in  their  hands,  they  roam  the  earth 
To  prey  upon  each  oth  r  ,  stubborn,  fierce, 
High-minded;  foaming  out  their  own  disgrace. 
Thy  prophets  sp  ak  of  such  ;  and,  noting  down 
The  features  of  the  last  degenerate  times, 
Exhibit    very  lineam  nt  of  these. 
Come,  then,  and  added  to  Thy  many  crowns, 
Receive  yet  one,  as  radiant  as  the  rest, 
Due  to  thy  last  and  most  effectual  work, 
Thy  word  fulfill'd,  the  conquest  of  a  world. 
He  is  the  happy  man  whose  life  even  now 
Shews  somewhat  of  that  happier  life  to  come ; 
Who,  doom'd  to  an    bscure  but  tranquil  state, 
Is  pleased  with  it,  and,  were  he  free  to  choose, 
Would  make  his  fate  his  choice  ;  whom  peace  the  fruit 
Of  virtue  and  whom  virtue,  fruit  of  faith, 
Prepare  for  happiness ;  bespeak  him  one 
Content  indeed  to  sojourn  while  he  must 
Below  the  skies,  but  having  there  his  home. 
The  world  o'erlooks  him  in  her  busy  search, 
Of  objects  more  illustrious  in  her  view ; 
And  occupied  as  earnestly  as  she, 
Th  ugh  more  sublimely,  he  o'erlooks  the  world. 
She  sec  rns  his  pleasures  for  she  knows  them  not  j 
He  seeks  not  hers,  for  he  has  proved  them  vain. 
He  cannot  skim  the  ground  like  summer  birds 
Pursuing  gilded  flies,  and  such  he  deems 
Her  honors,  her  emoluments,  her  joys. 

•MJ_«LM_L\  - »  — _-i_ i  — r— — —|—  — ^— — 

*  Unitarian  seceders  from  the  church  at  that  period. 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  363 

Therefore  in  contemplation  is  his  bliss, 

Whose  power  is  such,  that  whom  she  lifts  from  earth 

She  makes  familiar  with  a  heaven  unseen, 

And  shows  him  glories  yet  to  be  reveal'd. 

Not  slothful  he,  though  seeming  unemploy'd, 

And  censured  oft  as  useless.     Stillest  streams 

Oft  water  fairest  meadows,  and  the  bird 

That  flutters  least  is  longest  on  the  wing. 

Ask  him  indeed  what  trophies  he  has  raised, 

Or  what  achievements  of  immortal  fame 

He  purposes,  and  he  shall  answer — None. 

His  warfare  is  within.     There  unfatigued 

His  fervent  spirit  labors.     There  he  fights, 

And  there  obtains  fresh  triumphs  o'er  himself,       * 

And  never-withering  wreaths,  compared  with  which 

The  laurels  that  a  Caesar  reaps  are  weeds. 

Perhaps  the  self-approving  haughty  world, 

That  as  she  sweeps  him  with  her  whistling  silks 

Scarce  deigns  to  notice  him,  or,  if  she  see, 

Deems  him  a  cipher  in  the  works  of  God, 

Receives  advantage  from  his  noiseless  hours 

Of  which  she  little  dreams.     Perhaps  she  owes 

Her  sunshine  and  her  rain,  her  blooming  spring 

And  plenteous  harvest,  to  the  prayer  he  makes, 

When  Isaac-like,  the  solitary  saint 

Walks  forth  to  meditate  at  eventide, 

And  think  on  her,  who  thinks  not  for  herself. 

Forgive  him,  then   thou  bustler  in  concerns 

Of  little  worth,  an  idler  at  the  best, 

If,  author  of  no  mischief  and  some  good, 

He  seeks  his  proper  happiness  by  means 

That  may  advance,  but  cannot  hinder  thine. 

Nor  though  he  tread  the  secret  path  of  life, 

Engage  no  notice,  and  enjoy  much  ease, 

Account  him  an  encumbrance  on  the  state, 

Receiving  benefits,  and  rendering  none. 

His  sphere,  though  humble,  if  that  humble  sphere 

Shine  with  his  fair  example,  and  though  small 

His  influence,  if  that  influence  all  be  spent 

In  soothing  sorrow  arid  in  quenching  strife, 

In  aiding  helpless  indigence,  in  works 

From  which  at  least  a  grateful  few  derive 

Some  taste  of  comfort  in  a  world  of  woe. 

Then  let  the  supercilious  great  confess 

He  serves  his  country  ;  recompenses  well 

The  state  beneath  the  shadow  of  whose  vine 


$64  THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON. 

He  sits  secure  ;  and  in  the  scale  of  life 

Holds  no  ignoble,  though  a  slighted  place. 

The  man  whose  virtues  are  more  felt  than  seen, 

Must  drop  indeed  the  hope  of  public  praise ; 

But  he  may  boast  what  few  that  win  it  can, 

That  if  his  country  stand  not  by  his  skill, 

At  least  his  follies  have  not  wrought  her  fall. 

Polite  refinement  offers  him  in  vain 

Her  golden  tube,  through  which  a  sensual  world 

Draws  gross  impurity,  and  likes  it  well, 

The  neat  conveyance  hiding  all  the  offence. 

Not  that  he  peevishly  rejects  a  mode 

Because  that  world  adopts  it.     If  it  bear 

The  stamp  and  clear  impression  of  good  sense 

And  be  not  costly  more  than  of  true  worth, 

He  puts  it  on,  and  for  decorum  sake 

Can  wear  it  even  as  gracefully  as  she. 

She  judges  of  refinement  by  the  eye, 

He  by  the  test  of  conscience,  and  a  heart 

Not  soon  deceived  ;  aware  that  what  is  base 

No  polish  can  make  sterling,  and  that  vice, 

Though  well  perfumed  arid  elegantly  dress' d, 

Like  an  unburied  carcass  trick' d  with  flowers, 

Is  but  a  garnish'd  nuisance,  flitter  far 

For  cleanly  riddance  than  for  fair  attire. 

So  life  glides  smoothly  and  by  stealth  away, 

More  golden  than  that  age  of  fabled  gold 

Renown' d  in  ancient  song ;  not  vex'd  with  care 

Or  stained  with  guilt,  beneficent,  approved 

Of  God  and  man,  and  peaceful  in  its  end. 

So  glide  my  life  away !  and  so  at  last, 

My  share  of  duties  decently  fulfilled, 

May  some  disease,  not  tardy  to  perform 

Its  destined  office,  yet  with  gentle  stroke, 

Dismiss  me  weary  to  a  safe  retreat, 

Beneath  the  turf  that  I  have  often  trod. 

It  shall  not  grieve  me,  then,  that  once,  when  called 

To  dress  a  Sofa  with  the  flowers  of  verse, 

I  played  awhile,  obedient  to  the  fair, 

With  that  light  task ;  but  soon,  to  please  her  more, 

Whom  flowers  alone  I  knew  would  little  please, 

Let  fall  the  unfinished  wreath,  and  roved  for  fruit ; 

Roved  far,  and  gathered  much  :  some  harsh,  'tis  true, 

Picked  from  the  thorns  and  briars  of  reproof, 

But  wholesome,  well-digested  ;  grateful  some 

To  palates  that  can  taste  immortal  truth, 


THE  TASK.— THE  WINTER  WALK  AT  NOON.  365 


Insipid  else,  and  sure  to  be  despised. 

But  all  is  in  His  hand  whose  praise  I  seek. 

In  vain  the  Poet  sings  arid  the  World  hears, 

If  He  regard  not  though  divine  the  theme, 

'Tis  not  in  artful  measures,  in  the  chinie 

And  idle  tinkling  of  a  minstrel's  lyre, 

To  charm  His  ear,  whose  eye  is  on  the  heart, 

Whose  frown  can  disappoint  the  proudest  strain, 

Whose  approbation  prosper — even  mine. 


TIROCINIUM; 

OR,  A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 

1785. 


Ks<paXatov  &TJ  TtaiSstas  opdfj  rpofprj.  —  PLATO. 

Ap%<;  noAiTeias  axaffys,  veatv  rpu<pa.  —  DlOG.  LAERT. 


TO  THE 
REV.  WILLIAM  CAWTHORNE  UNWIN, 

RECTOR  OF  STOCK  IN  ESSEX, 

THE  TUTOR  OF  HIS  TWO  SONS, 

THE  FOLLOWING  POEM, 

RECOMMENDING    PRIVATE   TUITION   IN    PREFERENCE    TO   AN   EDU, 

CATION  AT  SCHOOL, 

IS  INSCRIBED, 
BY   HIS   AFFECTIONATE    FRIEND, 

WILLIAM  COWPER. 

Olney,  Nov.  6th,  1784. 


IT  is  not  from  his  form,  in  which  we  trace 
Strength  joined  with  beauty,  dignity  with  grace, 
That  man,  the  master  of  this  globe,  derives 
His  right  of  empire  over  all  that  lives. 
That  form,  indeed,  the  associate  of  a  mind 
Vast  in  its  powers,  ethereal  in  its  kind, — 
That  form,  the  labor  of  Almighty  skill, 
Framed  for  the  service  of  a  free-born  will, 
Asserts  precedence,  and  bespeaks  control, 
But  borrows  all  its  grandeur  from  the  soul. 
Hers  is  the  state,  the  splendor,  and  the  throne, 
An  intellectual  kingdom,  all  her  own. 
For  her,  the  Memory  fills  her  ample  page 
With  truths  poured  down  from  every  distant  ag«; 
For  her,  amasses  an  unbounded  store, 
The  wisdom  of  great  nations,  now  no  inore ; 

(366) 


A  RE  VIE  W  OF  SCHOOLS.  3  &  7 

Though  laden,  not  encumbered  with  her  spoil, 

Laborious,  yet  unconscious  of  her  toil, 

When  copiously  supplied,  then  most  enlarged, 

Still  to  be  fed,  and  not  to  bo  surcharged. 

For  her  the  Fancy,  roving  unconfirmed, 

The  present  Muse  of  every  pensive  mind, 

Works  magic  wonders,  adds  a  brighter  hue 

To  Nature's  scenes,  than  Nature  ever  knew. 

At  her  command  winds  rise  and  waters  roar, 

Again  she  lays  them  slumbering  on  the  shore  ; 

With  flower  and  fruit  the  wilderness  supplies, 

Or  bids  the  rocks  in  ruder  pomp  arise. 

For  her  the  judgment,  umpire  in  the  strife 

That  Grace  and  Nature  have  to  wage  through  life, 

Quick-sighted  arbiter  of  good  arid  ill, 

Appointed  sage  preceptor  to  the  Will, 

Condemns,  approves,  arid  with  a  faithful  voice 

Guides  the  decision  of  a  doubtful  choice. 

Why  did  the  fiat  of  a  God  give  birth 
To  yon  fair  Sun  and  his  attendant  Earth  ? 
And  when  descending  he  resigns  the  skies, 
Why  takes  the  gentler  Moon  her  turn  to  rise, 
Whom  Ocean  feels  through  all  his  countless  waves, 
And  owiis  her  power  oil  every  shore  he  laves  ? 
Why  do  the  seasons  still  enrich  the  year, 
Fruitful  and  voiin^  as  in  their  first  career? 
Spring  hangs  her  infant  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  western  breeze ; 
Summer  in  haste  the  thriving  charge  receives, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  her  expanded  leaves, 
Till  Autumn's  fiercer  heats  and  plenteous  dews 
Dye  them  at  last  in  all  their  glowing  hues. — 
'Twere  wild  profusion  all,  and  bootless  waste, 
Power  misemployed,  munificence  misplaced, 
Had  not  its  author  dignified  the  plan. 
And  crowned  it  with  the  majesty  of  man. 
Thus  formed,  thus  placed,  intelligent  and  taught, 
Look  where  he  will,  the  wonders  God  has  wrought, 
The  wildest  scorner  of  his  Maker's  laws 
Finds  in  a  sober  moment  time  to  pause, 
To  press  the  important  question  on  his  heart, 
"  Why  form'd  at  all,  and  wherefore  as  thou  art?" 
If  man  be  what  he  seems,  this  hour  a  slave, 
The  next  mere  dust  and  ashes  in  the  grave  ; 
Endued  with  reason  only  to  descry 
His  crimes  and  follies  with  an  aching  eye; 


368  TIROCINIUM;  OR, 


With  passions,  just  that  he  may  prove,  with  pain, 
The  force  he  spends  against  their  fury  vain  ; 
And  if,  soon  after  having  burned,  by  turns, 
With  every  lust  with  which  frail  Nature  burns, 
His  being  end  where  death  dissolves  the  bond, 
The  toinb  take  all,  and  all  be  blank  beyond ; 
Then  he,  of  all  that  Nature  has  brought  forth, 
Stands  self-impeached  the  creature  of  least  worth, 
And  useless  while  he  lives,  and  when  he  dies, 
Brings  into  doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

Truths  that  the  learned  pursue  with  eager  thought 
Are  not  important  always  as  dear-bought, 
Proving  at  last,  though  told  in  pompous  strains, 
A  childish  waste  of  philosophic  pains ; 
But  truths  on  which  depends  our  main  concern, 
That  'tis  our  shame  and  misery  not  to  learn, 
Shine  by  the  side  of  every  path  we  tread, 
With  such  a  lustre  he  that  runs  may  read. 
'Tis  true  that,  if  to  trifle  life  away 
Down  to  the  sunset  of  their  latest  day, 
Then  perish  on  futurity's  wide  shore 
Like  fleeting  exhalations  found  no  more, 
Were  all  that  Heaven  required  of  humankind, 
And  all  the  plan  their  destiny  designed, 
What  none  could  reverence  all  might  justly  blame, 
And  man  would  breathe  but  for  his  Maker's  shame. 
But  Reason  heard,  arid  Nature  well  perused, 
At  once  the  dreaming  mind  is  disabused. 
If  all  we  find  possessing  earth,  sea,  air, 
Reflect  His  attributes  who  placed  them  there, 
Fulfil  the  purpose,  and  appear  designed 
Proofs  of  the  wisdom  of  the  all-seeing  mind, 
'Tis  plain  the  creature  whom  He  chose  to  invest 
With  kingship  and  dominion  o'er  the  rest, 
Received  his  nobler  nature,  and  was  made 
Fit  for  the  power  in  which  he  stands  arrayed, 
That  first  or  last,  hereafter  if  not  here, 
He  too  might  make  his  Author's  wisdom  clear, 
Praise  Him  on  earth,  or  obstinately  dumb, 
Suffer  His  justice  in  a  world  to  come. 
This  once  believed  'twere  logic  misapplied 
To  prove  a  consequence  by  none  denied, 
That  we  are  bound  to  cast  the  minds  of  youth, 
Betimes  into  the  mould  of  heavenly  truth, 
That  taught  of  Grod  they  may  indeed  be  wise, 
Not  ignorantly  wandering  miss  the  skies. 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  369 

In  early  days  the  Conscience  has  in  most 
A  quickness  which  in  later  life  is  lost : 
Preserved  from  guilt  by  salutary  fears, 
Or,  guilty,  soon  relenting  into  tears. 
Too  careless  often,  as  our  years  proceed, 
What  friends  we  sort  with,  or  what  books  we  read, 
Our  parents  yet  exert  a  prudent  care 
To  feed  our  infant  minds  with  proper  fare, 
And  wisely  store  the  nursery  by  degrees 
With  wholesome  learning,  yet  acquired  with  ease. 
Neatly  secured  from  being  soiled  or  torn 
Beneath  a  pane  of  thin  translucent  iiorn, 
A  book  (to  please  us  at  a  tender  age 
'Tis  called  a  book,  though  but  a  single  page) 
Presents  the  prayer  the  Saviour  deigned  to  teach, 
Which  children  use,  and  parsons — when  they  preach. 
Lisping  our  syllables,  we  scramble  next 
Through  moral  narrative,  or  sacred  text, 
And  learn  with  wonder  how  this  world  began, 
Who  made,  who  marred,  and  who  has  ransomed  man  j 
Points,  which,  unless  the  Scripture  made  them  plain, 
The  wisest  heads  might  agitate  in  vain. 
Oh  thou,*  whom,  borne  on  Fancy's  eager  wing 
Back  to  the  season  of  life's  happy  spring. 
I  pleased  remember,  and,  while  memory  yet 
Holds  fast  her  office  here,  can  ne'er  forget ; 
Ingenious  dreamer,  in  whose  well-told  tale 
Sweet  fiction  and  sweet  truth  alike  prevail  ; 
Whose  humorous  vein,  strong  sense,  and  simple 
May  teach  the  gayest,  make  the  gravest  smile, 
Witty,  and  well-employed,  and,  like  thy  Lord, 
Speaking  in  parables  His  slighted  word, 
I  name  thee  not,  lest  so  despised  a  name 
Should  move  a  sneer  at  thy  deserved  fame, 
Yet  even  in  transitory  life's  late  day, 
That  mingles  all  my  brown  with  sober  gray, 
Revere  the  man  whose  PILGRIM  marks  the  road, 
And  guides  the  PROGRESS  of  the  soul  to  God. 
'Twere  well  with  most,  if  books  that  could  engage 
Their  childhood,  pleased  them  at  a  riper  age  ; 
The  man  approving  what  had  charmed  the  boy, 
Would  die  at  last  in  comfort,  peace,  and  joy, 
And  not  with  curses  on  his  art  who  stole 
The  gem  of  truth  from  his  unguarded  soul. 

*  John  Bunyan. 


37°  TIROCINIUM;  OR> 


The  stamp  of  artless  piety  impressed 

By  kind  tuition  on  his  shielding  breast, 

The  youth  now  bearded,  and  yet  pert  and  raw, 

Regards  with  scorn,  though  once  received  with  awe, 

And  warped  into  the  labyrinth  of  lies, 

That  babblers*  called  philosophers,  devise, 

Blasphemes  his  creed,  as  founded  on  a  plan 

Replete  with  dreams,  unworthy  of  a  man. 

Touch  but  his  nature  in  its  ailing  part, 

Assert  the  native  evil  of  his  heart, 

His  pride  resents  the  charge,  although  the  proof  * 

Rise  in  his  forehead,  and  seem  rank  enough : 

Point  to  the  cure,  describe  a  Saviour's  cross 

As  God's  expedient  to  retrieve  his  loss, 

The  young  apostate  sickens  at  the  view, 

And  hates  it  with  the  malice  of  a  Jew. 

How  weak  the  barrier  of  mere  Nature  proves, 
Opposed  against  the  pleasures  Nature  loves  ! 
While  self-betrayed,  and  wilfully  undone. 
She  longs  to  yield,  no  sooner  wooed  than  won, 
Try  now  the  merits  of  this  blest  exchange 
Of  modest  truth  for  wit's  eccentric  range. 
Time  was  he  closed  as  he  began  the  day, 
With  decent  duty,  not  ashamed  to  pray  ; 
The  practice  was  a  bond  upon  his  heart, 
A  pledge  he  gave  for  a  consistent  part ; 
Nor  could  he  dare  presumptuously  displease 
A  power,  confessed  so  lately  on  his  knees. 
But  now,  farewell  all  legendary  tales, 
The  shadows  fly,  philosophy  prevails, 
Prayer  to  the  winds,  and  caution  to  the  waves, 
Religion  makes  the  free  by  nature  slaves, 
Priests  have  invented,  and  the  world  admired, 
What  knavish  priests  promulgate  as  inspired, 
Till  Reason,  now  no  longer  overawed, 
Resumes  her  powers,  and  spurns  the  clumsy  fraud  j 
And  common  sense  diffusing  real  day, 
The  meteor  of  the  Gospel  dies  away. 
Such  rhapsodies  our  shrewd  discerning  youth 
Learn  from  expert  inquirers  after  truth  ; 
Whose  only  care,  might  truth  presume  to  speak, 
Is  not  to  find  what  they  profess  to  seek. 
And  thus,  well  tutored  only  while  we  share 
A  mother's  lecture  and  a  nurse's  care, 

*  Alluding  to  Uzziab,  King  of  Judah.    See  2  Chron.  xxri.  19. 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  371 


And  taught  at  schools  much  mythologic  stuff,* 
But  sound  religion  sparingly  enough, 
Our  early  notices  of  truth,  disgraced, 
Soon  lose  their  credit,  and  are  all  effaced. 

Would  you  your  son  should  be  a  sot  or  dunce, 
Lascivious,  headstrong,  or  all  these  at  once  ; 
That  in  good  time,  the  stripling's  finished  taste 
For  loose  expense  and  fashionable  waste, 
Should  prove  your  ruin,  and  his  own  at  last, 
Train  him  in  public  with  a  mob  of  boys, 
Childish  in  mischief  only  and  in  noise, 
Else  of  a  mannish  growth,  and  five  in  ten 
In  infidelity  and  lewdness,  men. 
There  shall  he  learn,  ere  sixteen  winters  old, 
That  authors  are  most  useful,  pawned  or  sold  ; 
That  pedantry  is  all  that  schools  impart, 
But  taverns  teach  the  knowledge  of  the  heart ; 
There  waiter  Dick,  with  Bacchanalian  lays, 
Shall  win  his  heart,  and  have  his  drunken  praise. 
His  counsellor  and  bosom-friend  shall  prove, 
And  some  street-pacing  harlot  his  first  love. 
Schools,  unless  discipline  were  doubly  strong, 
Detain  their  adolescent  charge  too  long  } 
The  management  of  tyros  of  eighteen 
Is  difficult,  their  punishment  obscene. 
The  stout,  tall  captain,  whose  superior  size 
The  minor  heroes  view  with  envious  eyes, 
Becomes  their  pattern,  upon  whom  they  fix 
Their  whole  attention,  and  ape  all  his  tricks. 
His  pride,  that  scorns  to  obey  or  to  submit, 
With  them  is  courage  ;  his  effrontery  wit ; 
His  wild  excursions,  window-breaking  feats, 
Robbery  of  gardens,  quarrels  in  the  streets, 
His  hairbreadth  'scapes,  and  all  his  daring  schemes, 
Transport  them,  and  are  made  their  favorite  themes  ; 
In  little  bosoms  such  achievements  strike 
A  kindred  spark,  they  burn  to  do  the  like. 
Thus,  half  accomplished  ere  he  yet  begin 
To  show  the  peeping  down  upon  his  chin, 
And  as  maturity  of  years  comes  on, 
Made  just  the  adept  that  you  designed  your  son, 

*  The  author  begs  leave  to  explain. — Sensible  that,  withput  such  knowledge,  neither 
the  ancient  poets  nor  historians  can  be  tasted,  or  indeed  understood,  he  does  not  mean 
to  censure  the  pains  that  are  taken  to  instruct  a  schoolboy  in  the  religion  of  the 
heathen,  but  merely  that  neglect  of  Christian  culture  which  leaves  him  shamefully 
ijfnorant  of  his  own.— (C-) 


372  TIROCINIUM;  OR, 


To  ensure  the  perseverance  of  his  course, 
And  give  your  monstrous  project  all  its  force, 
Send  him  to  college.     If  he  there  be  tamed, 
Or  in  one  article  of  vice  reclaimed, 
Where  no  regard  of  ord'nances  is  shown, 
Or  looked  for  now,  the  fault  must  be  his  own. 
Some  sneaking  virtue  lurks  in  him,  no  doubt, 
Where  neither  strumpets'  charms,  nor  drinking  bout, 
Nor  gambling  practices,  can  find  it  out. 
Such  youths  of  spirit,  and  that  spirit  too, 
Ye  nurseries  of  our  boys,  we  owe  to  you  : 
-Though  from  ourselves  the  mischief  more  proceeds, 
For  public  schools  'tis  public  folly  feeds. 
The  slaves  of  custom  and  established  mode, 
With  packhorse  constancy  we  keep  the  road, 
Crooked  or  straight,  through  quags  or  thorny  dells, 
True  to  the  jingling  of  our  leader's  bells. 
To  follow  foolish  precedents,  and  wink 
With  both  our  eyes,  is  easier  than  to  think, 
And  such  an  age  as  ours  balks  no  expense, 
Except  of  caution  and  of  common  sense  ; 
Else  sure,  notorious  fact  and  proof  so  plain, 
Would  turn  our  steps  into  a  wiser  train. 
I  blame  not  those  who,  with  what  care  they  can, 
O'erwatch  the  numerous  and  unruly  clan, 
Or  if  I  blame,  'tis  only  that  they  dare 
Promise  a  work  of  which  they  must  despair. 
Have  ye,  ye  sage  iritendants  of  the  whole, 
An  ubiquarian  presence  and  control, 
Elisha's  eye,  that  when  Grehazi  strayed, 
Went  with  him,  and  saw  all  the  game  he  played  ? 
Yes — ye  are  conscious  ;  arid  on  all  the  shelves 
Your  pupils  strike  upon,  have  struck  yourselves. 
Or  if  by  nature  sober,  ye  had  then, 
Boys  as  ye  were,  the  gravity  of  men, 
Ye  knew  at  least,  by  constant  proofs  addressed 
To  ears  arid  eyes,  the  vices  of  the  rest- 
But  ye  connive  at  what  ye  cannot  cure, 
Arid  evils  not  to  be  endured,  endure, 
Lest  power  exerted,  but  without  success, 
Should  make  the  little  ye  retain  still  less. 
Y~e  once  were  justly  famed  for  bringing  forth 
Undoubted  scholarship  and  genuine  worth, 
And  in  the  firmament  of  fame  still  shines 
A  glory  bright  as  that  of  all  the  signs, 
Of  poets  raised  by  you,  and  statesmen,  and  divinat 


A  RE  VIE  W  OF  SCHOOLS.  373 

I^eace  to  them  all !  those  brilliant  times  are  fled, 
And  no  such  lights  are  kindling  in  their  stead. 
Our  striplings  shine  indeed,  but  with  such  rays 
As  set  the  midnight  riot  in  a  blaze, 
And  seem,  if  judged  by  their  expressive  looks, 
Deeper  in  none  than  in  their  surgeons'  books. 

Say,  Muse  (for  education  made  the  song, 
No  Muse  can  hesitate  or  linger  long). 
What  causes  move  us.  knowing,  as  we  must, 
That  these  menageries  all  fail  their  trust. 
To  send  our  sons  to  scout  and  scamper  there, 
While  colts  and  puppies  cost  us  so  much  care  ? 

Be  it  a  weakness,  it  deserves  some  praise, 
We  love  the  play-place  of  our  early  days. 
The  scene  is  touching,  and  the  heart  is  stone 
That  feels  not  at  that  sight,  and  feels  at  none. 
The  wall  on  which  we  tried  our  graving  skill, 
The  very  name  we  carved  subsiding  still  ; 
The  bench  on  which  we  5; it  while  deep  employed, 
Though  mangled,  hacked,  arid  hewed,  not  yet  destroyed  \ 
The  little  ones,  unbuttoned,  glowing  hot, 
Playing  our  games,  and  on  the  very  spot, 
As  happy  as  we  once,  to  kneel  and  draw 
The  chalky  ring,  and  knuckle  down  at  taw  ; 
To  pitch  the  ball  into  the  grounded  hat, 
Or  drive  it  devious  with  a  deMrn  us  pat ; 
The  pleasing  spectacle  at  once  excites 
Such  recollection  of  our  own  delights, 
That  viewing  it,  we  seem  almost  to  obtain 
Our  innocent  sweet  simple  years  again. 
This  fond  attachment  to  the  well-known  place> 
Whence  first  we  started  into  life's  long  race. 
Maintains  its  hold  with  such  unfailing  sway, 
We  feel  it  even  in  age,  and  at  our  latest  day 
Hark  !  how  the  sire  of  chits,  whose  future  share 
Of  classic  food  begins  to  be  his  care, 
With  his  own  likeness  placed  on  either  knee, 
Indulges  all  a  father's  heart-felt  glee, 
And  tells  them,  as  he  strokes  their  silver  locks, 
That  they  must  soon  learn  Latin,  and  to  box  ; 
Then  turning,  he  regales  his  listening  wife 
With  all  the  adventures  of  his  early  life, 
His  skill  in  coachmanship,  or  driving  chaise, 
In  bilking  tavern  bills,  and  spouting  plays.; 
What  shifts  he  used,  detected  in  a  scrape, 
How  he  was  flogged,  or  had  the  luck  to  escape. 


374  TIROCINIUM;  OR, 


What  sums  he  lost  at  play,  and  how  he  sold 

Watch,  seals,  and  all — till  all  his  pranks  are  told. 

Retracing  thus  his  frolics  ('tis  a  name 

That  palliates  deeds  of  folly  and  of  shame) 

He  gives  the  local  bias  all  its  sway, 

Resolves  that  where  he  played  his  sons  shall  play, 

And  destines  their  bright  genius  to  be  shown 

Just  in  the  scene  where  he  displayed  his  own. 

The  meek  and  bashful  boy  will  soon  be  taught 

To  be  as  bold  and  forward  as  he  ought, 

The  rude  will  scuffle  through  with  ease  enough, 

Great  schools  suit  best  the  sturdy  and  the  rough. 

Ah  happy  designation,  prudent  choice, 

The  event  is  sure,  expect  it,  and  rejoice  ! 

Soon  see  your  wish  fulfilled  in  either  child, 

The  pert  made  perter,  and  the  tame  made  wild. 

The  great,  indeed,  by  titles,  riches,  birth, 
Excused  the  incumbrance  of  more  solid  worth, 
Are  best  disposed  of  where  with  most  success 
They  may  acquire  that  confident  address, 
Those  habits  of  profuse  and  lewd  expense, 
That  scorn  of  all  delights  but  those  of  sense, 
Which  though  in  plain  plebeians  we  condemn, 
With  so  much  reason  all  expect  from  them. 
But  families  of  less  illustrious  fame, 
Whose  chief  distinction  is  their  spotless  name, 
Whose  heirs,  their  honors  none,  their  income  small, 
Must  shine  by  true  desert,  or  not  at  all, 
What  dream  they  of,  that,  with  so  little  care 
They  risk  their  hopes,  their  dearest  treasure,  there? 
They  dream  of  little  Charles  or  William  graced 
With  wig  prolix,  down-flowing  to  his  waist, 
They  see  the  attentive  crowds  his  talents  draw, 
They  hear  him  speak — the  oracle  of  law. 
The  father  who  designs  his  babe  a  priest, 
Dreams  him  episcopally  such  at  least, 
And  while  the  playful  jockey  scours  the  room 
Briskly,  astride  upon  the  parlor  broom, 
In  fancy  sees  him  more  superbly  ride 
In  coach  with  purple  lined,  and  mitres  on  its  side 
Events  improbable  and  strange  as  these, 
Which  only  a  parental  eye  foresees, 
A  public  school  shall  bring  to  pass  with  ease, 
But  how  ?  resides  such  virtue  in  that  air, 
As  must  create  an  appetite  for  prayer  ? 
And  will  it  breathe  into  him  all  the  zeal 


A  KEVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  375 


« 


" 


That  candidates  for  such  a  prize  should  feel, 

To  take  the  lead  and  be  the  foremost  still 

In  all  true  worth  and  literary  skill  ? 

"  Ah  blind  to  bright  futurity,  untaught 

"  The  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  dull  of  thought ! 

"  Church  ladders  are  not  always  mounted  best 

By  learned  clerks,  and  Latiriists  professed. 

The  exalted  prize  demands  an  upward  look, 

Not  to  be  found  by  poring  on  a  book. 
"Small  skill  in  Latin,  and  still  less  in  Greek, 
"  Is  more  than  adequate  to  all  I  seek. 
"  Let  erudition  grace  him  or  not  grace, 
"  I  give  the  bauble  but  the  second  place, 
"His  wealth,  fame,  honors,  all  that  I  intend, 
"  Subsist  and  centre  in  one  point — a  friend. 
"A  friend,  whate'er  he  studies  or  neglects, 
"Shall  give  him  consequence,  heal  all  defects. 
"His  intercourse  with  peers,  and  sons  of  perrs 
"  There  dawns  the  splendor  of  his  future  years, 
"  In  that  bright  quarter  his  propitious  skies 
"  Shall  blush  betimes,  and  there  his  glory  ri>«-. 
"  '  Your  Lordship  !  '  and  '  Your  Grace ! '  what  school  can  teach 
"  A  rhetoric  equal  to  those  parts  of  speech? 
"  What  need  of  Homer's  verse,  or  Tully's  prose, 
"  Sweet  interjections  !  if  he  learn  but  those  ? 
"  Let  reverend  churls  his  ignorance  rebuke, 
"  Who  starve  uj  o  i  a  dog's-ear'd  Pentateuch, 
"  The  parson  knows  enough  who  knows  a  Duke." 
Egregious  purpose  !  worthily  begun 
In  barbarous  prostitution  of  your  son  ; 
Pres:  i'd  on  his  part  by  means  that  would  disgrace 
A  scriveners  clerk,  or  footman  out  of  place. 
And  ending,  if  at  last  its  end  be  gained, 
In  sacrilege,  in  God's  own  house  profaned. 
It  may  succeed  ;  and  if  his  sins  should  call 
For  more  than  common  punishment,  it  shall. 
The  wretch  shall  rise,  and  be  the  thing  on  earth 
Least  qualified  in  honor,  learning,  worth, 
To  occupy  a  sacred,  awful  post, 
In  which  the  best  and  worthiest  tremble  most. 
The  royal  letters  are  a  thing  of  course, 
A  king,  that  would,  might  recommend  his  horse, 
And  Deans,  no  doubt,  and  Chapters,  with  one  voice, 
As  bound  in  duty,  would  confirm  the  choice. 
Behold  your  Bishop  1  well  he  plays  his  part, 
Christian  in  name,  and  infidel  in  heart, 


376  TIROCINIUM;  OR, 

Ghostly  in  office,  earthly  in  his  plan, 

A  slave  at  court,  elsewhere  a  lady's  man, 

Dumb  as  a  senator,  and  as  a  priest 

A  piece  of  mere  church-furniture  at  best ; 

To  live  estranged  from  Grod  his  total  scope, 

And  his  end  sure,  without  one  glimpse  of  hope. 

But  fair  although  and  feasible  it  seem, 

Depend  not  much  upon  your  golden  dream  ; 

For  Providence,  that  seems  concerned  to  exempt 

The  hallowed  bench  from  absolute  contempt, 

In  spite  of  all  the  wrigglers  into  place, 

Still  keeps  a  seat  or  two  for  worth  and  grace  ; 

Arid  therefore  'tis,  that,  though  the  sight  be  rare, 

We  sometimes  see  a  Lowth  or  Bagot  *  there. 

Besides,  school-friendships  are  not  always  found, 

Though  fair  in  promise,  permanent  and  sound  ; 

The  .i^st  disinterested  and  virtuous  minds, 

In  early  years  connected,  time  unbinds  ; 

New  situations  give  a  different  cast 

Of  habit,  inclination,  temper,  taste; 

And  he  that  seemed  our  counterpart  at  first, 

Soon  shows  the  strong  similitude  reversed. 

Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are  warm, 

And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform. 

Boys  are,  at  best,  but  pretty  buds  unblown, 

Whose  scent  and  hues  are  rather  guessed  than  known  ; 

Each  dreams  that  each  is  just  what  he  appears, 

But  learns  his  error  in  maturer  years, 

When  disposition,  like  a  sail  unfurled, 

Shows  all  its  rents  and  patches  to  the  world. 

If,  therefore,  even  when  honest  in  design, 

A  boyish  friendship  may  so  soon  decline, 

'Twere  wiser  sure  to  inspire  a  little  heart 

With  just  abhorrence  of  so  mean  a  part, 

Than  set  your  son  to  work  at  a  vile  trade 

For  wages  so  unlikely  to  be  paid. 

Our  public  hives  of  puerile  resort, 
That  are  of  chief  arid  most  approved  report, 
To  such  base  hopes,  in  many  a  sordid  soul, 
Owe  their  repute  in  part,  but  not  the  whole, 
A  principle,  whose  proud  pretensions  pass 
Unquestioned,  though  the  jewel  be  but  glass, 
That  with  a  world,  not  often  over-nice, 
Ranks  as  a  virtue,  and  is  yet  a  vice, 


*  Bishop  Lowth,  author  of  "  The  Sacred  Poetry  of  the  Hebrews,"  &c    Bishop  Bagot, 
an  excellent  prelate,  adorned  the  hierarchy  by  his  virtues. 


A  RE  VIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  377 


Or  rather  a  gross  compound,  justly  tried, 

Of  envy,  hatred,  jealousy  and  pride, 

Contributes  most  perhaps  to  enhance  their  fame, 

And  Emulation  is  its  specious  name. 

Boys,  once  on  fire  with  that  contentious  zeal, 

Feel  all  the  rage  that  female  rivals  feel, 

The  prize  of  beauty  in  a  woman's  eyes 

Not  brighter  than  in  theirs  the  scholar's  prize. 

The  spirit  of  that  competition  burns 

With  all  varieties  of  ill  by  turns, 

Each  vainly  magnifies  his  own  success, 

Resents  his  fellow's,  wishes  it  were  less, 

Exults  in  his  miscarriage  if  he  fail, 

Deems  his  reward  too  great  if  he  prevail, 

And  labors  to  surpass  him  day  and  night, 

Less  for  improvement  than  to  tickle  spite. 

The  spur  is  powerful,  and  I  grant  its  force, 

It  pricks  the  genius  forward  in  its  course, 

Allows  short  time  for  play,  and  none  for  sloth, 

And  left  alike  by  each,  advances  both, 

But  judge,  where  so  much  evil  intervenes, 

The  end,  though  plausible,  not  worth  the  means. 

Weigh,  for  a  moment,  classical  desert 

Against  a  heart  depraved  and  temper  hurt, 

Hurt  too  perhaps  for  life,  for  early  wrong 

Done  to  the  nobler  part  affects  it  long ; 

And  you  are  staunch  indeed  in  learning's  cause 

If  you  can  crown  a  discipline  that  draws 

Such  mischiefs  after  it,  with  much  applause. 

Connection  formed  for  interest,  and  endeared 
By  selfish  views,  thus  censured  and  cashiered  ; 
And  Emulation,  as  engendering  hate, 
Doomed  to  a  no  less  ignominious  fate : 
The  props  of  such  proud  seminaries  fall, 
The  Jachin  and  the  Boaz  *  of  them  all. 
Great  schools  reject  them,  as  those  that  swell 
Beyond  a  size  that  can  be  managed  well, 
Shall  royal  institutions  miss  the  bays, 
And  small  academies  win  all  the  praise  ? 
Force  not  my  drift  beyond  its  just  intent, 
I  praise  a  school  as  Pope  a  government ; 
So  take  my  judgment  in  his  language  dressed, 
"  Whate'er  is  best  administered,  is  best." 
Few  boys  are  born  with  talents  that  excel, 
But  are  all  capable  of  living  well ; 

*  1  Kings  Tii.  21. 


378  TIROCINIUM-,  OR, 


Then  ask  not,  whether  limited  or  large? 

But,  watch  they  strictly,  or  neglect  their  charge  ? 

If  anxious  only  that  their  boys  may  learn, 

While  morals  languish,  a  despised  concern, 

The  great  and  small  deserve  one  common  blarney 

Different  in  size,  but  in  effect  the  same. 

Much  zeal  in  virtue's  cause  all  teachers  boast, 

Though  motives  of  mere  lucre  sway  the  most ; 

Therefore  in  towns  and  cities  they  abound, 

For  there  the  game  they  seek  is  easiest  found, 

Though  there,  in  spite  of  all  that  care  can  do, 

Traps  to  catch  youth  are  most  abundant  too. 

If  shrewd,  and  of  a  well-constructed  brain, 

Keen  in  pursuit,  and  vigorous  to  retain, 

Your  son  come  forth  a  prodigy  of  skill; 

As  wheresoever  taught,  so  formed,  he  will, 

The  pedagogue,  with  self  complacent  air, 

Claims  more  than  half  the  praise  as  his  due  share  ; 

But  if,  with  all  his  genius,  he  betray, 

Not  more  intelligent  than  loose  and  gay, 

Such  vicious  habits  as  disgrace  his  name, 

Threaten  his  health,  his  fortune,  and  his  fame, 

Though  want  of  due  restraint  alone  have  bred 

The  symptoms  that  you  see  with  so  much  dread, 

Unenvied  there,  he  may  sustain  alone 

The  whole  reproach,  the  fault  was  all  his  own. 

Oh !  'tis  a  sight  to  be  with  joy  perused, 
By  all  whom  sentiment  has  not  abused, 
New-fangled  sentiment,  the  boasted  grace 
Of  those  who  never  feel  in  the  right  place, 
A  sight  surpassed  by  none  that  we  can  show, 
Though  Vestris  on  one  leg  still  shine  below, 
A  father  blest  with  an  ingenuous  son, 
Father,  and  friend,  and  tutor,  all  in  one. 
How ! — turn  again  to  tales  long  since  forgot, 
^sop,  and  Phaedrus,  and  the  rest  ? — Why  not  ? 
He  will  not  blush  that  has  a  father's  heart, 
To  take  in  childish  plays  a  childish  part, 
But  bends  his  sturdy  back  to  any  toy 
That  youth  takes  pleasure  in,  to  please  his  boy ; 
Then  why  resign  into  a  stranger's  hand 
A  task  as  much  within  your  own  command, 
That  God  and  Nature,  and  your  interest  too, 
Seem  with  one  voice  to  delegate  to  you  ? 
Why  hire  a  lodging  in  a  house  unknown 
For  one  whose  tenderest  thoughts  all  hover  round  your  own 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  379 


This  second  weaning,  needless  as  it  is, 

How  does  it  lacerate  both  your  heart  and  his  1 

The  indented  stick  that  loses  day  by  day 

Notch  after  notch  lill  all  are  smoothed  away, 

Bears  witness,  long  ere  his  dismission  come, 

With  what  intense  desire  he  wants  his  home. 

But  though  the  joys  he  hopes  beneath  your  roof 

Bid  fair  enough  to  answer  in  the  proof, 

Harmless,  and  safe,  and  natural  as  they  are, 

A  disappointment  waits  him  even  there : 

Arrived,  he  feels  an  unexpected  change, 

He  blushes,  hangs  his  head,  is  shy.  and  strange, 

No  longer  takes,  as  once,  with  fearless  ease, 

His  favorite  stand  between  his  father's  knees. 

But  seeks  the  corner  of  somo  distant  seat, 

And  eyes  the  door,  and  watches  a  retreat, 

And  least  familiar,  where  he  should  be  most, 

Peels  all  his  happiest  privileges  lost. 

Alas,  poor  boy  ! — the  natural  effect 

Of  love  by  absence  chilled  into  respect. 

Say,  what  accomplishments  at  school  acquired, 

Brings  he  to  sweeten  fruits  so  undesired  ? 

Thou  well  deservest  an  alienated  son, 

Unless  thy  conscious  heart  acknowledge — none  j 

None  that,  in  thy  domestic  snug  recess, 

He  had  not  made  his  own  with  more  address, 

Though  some,  perhaps,  that  shock  thy  feeling  mind, 

And  better  never  learned,  or  left  behind. 

Add  too,  that  thus  estranged,  thou  canst  obtain 

By  no  kind  arts  his  confidence  again  ; 

That  here  begins  with  most  that  long  complaint 

Of  filial  frankness  lost,  and  love  grown  faint, 

Which,  oft  neglected,  in  life's  waning  years 

A  parent  pours  into  regardless  ears. 

Like  caterpillars  dangling  under  trees 
By  slender  threads,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze, 
Which  filthily  bewray  and  sore  disgrace 
The  boughs  on  which  are  bred  the  unseemly  race, 
While  every  worm  industriously  weaves 
And  winds  his  web  about  the  rivelled  leaves  ; 
So  numerous  are  the  follies  that  annoy 
The  mind  and  heart  of  every  sprightly  boy  ; 
Imaginations  noxious  and  perverse, 
Which  admonition  can  alone  disperse. 
The  encroaching  nuisance  asks  a  faithful  hand, 
Patient,  affectionate,  of  high  command, 


3^0  TIROCINIUM;  OR, 


To  check  the  procreation  of  a  breed 

Sure  to  exhaust  the  plant  on  which  they  feed. 

"Tis  not  enough  that  Greek  or  Roman  page, 

At  stated  hours,  his  freakish  thoughts  engage  ; 

Even  in  his  pastimes  he  requires  a  friend 

To  warn,  and  teach  him  safely  to  unbend, 

O'er  all  his  pleasures  gently  to  preside, 

Watch  his  emotions  and  control  their  tide, 

And  levying  thus,  and  with  an  easy  sway, 

A  tax  of  profit  from  his  very  play, 

To  impress  a  value,  not  to  be  erased, 

On  moments  squandered  else,  and  running  all  to  waste. 

And  seems  it  nothing  in  a  father's  eye 

That  unimproved  those  many  moments  fly  ? 

And  is  he  well  content  his  son  should  find 

No  nourishment  to  feed  his  growing  mind, 

But  conjugated  verbs,  and  nouns  declined  ? 

For  such  is  all  the  mental  food  purveyed 

By  public  hackneys  in  the  schooling  trade ; 

Who  feed  a  pupil's  intellect  with  store 

Of  syntax  truly,  but  with  little  more, 

Dismiss  their  cares  when  they  dismiss  their  flock, 

Machines  themselves,  and  governed  by  a  clock. 

Perhaps  a  father,  blessed  with  any  brains, 

Would  deem  it  no  abuse,  or  waste  of  pains, 

To  improve  this  diet,  at  no  great  expense, 

With  savory  truth  and  wholesome  common  sense  ; 

To  lead  his  son  for  prospects  of  delight, 

To  some  not  steep,  though  philosophic,  height, 

Thence  to  exhibit  to  his  wondering  eyes 

Yon  circling  worlds,  their  distance,  and  their  size, 

The  moon  of  Jove,  and  Saturn's  belted  ball, 

Arid  the  harmonious  order  of  them  all ; 

To  show  him  in  an  insect,  or  a  flower, 

Such  microscopic  proof  of  skill  and  power, 

As,  hid  from  ages  passed,  God  now  displays 

To  combat  atheists  with  in  modern  days ; 

To  spread  the  earth  before  him  and  commend, 

With  designation  of  the  finger's  end, 

Its  various  parts  to  his  attentive  note, 

Thus  bringing  home  to  him  the  most  remote  ; 

To  teach  his  heart  to  glow  with  generous  flame, 

Caught  from  the  deeds  of  men  of  ancient  fame ; 

And  more  than  all,  with  commendation  due, 

To  set  some  living  worthy  in  his  view, 

Whose  fair  example  may  at  once  inspire 


A  RE  VIE  W  OF  SCHOOLS. 


A  wish  to  copy  what  he  must  admire. 

Such  knowledge,  gained  betimes,  and  which  appears, 

Though  solid,  not  too  weighty  for  his  years, 

Sweet  in  itself,  arid  not  forbidding  sport, 

When  health  demands  it,  of  athletic  sort, 

Would  make  him  what  some  lovely  boys  have  been, 

Arid  more  than  one  perhaps  that  I  have  seen, 

An  evidence  and  reprehension  both 

Of  the  mere  schoolboy's  lean  and  tardy  growth. 

Art  thou  a  man  professionally  tied, 
With  all  thy  faculties  elsewhere  applied, 
Too  busy  to  intend  a  meaner  care 
Than  how  to  enrich  thyself,  and  next,  thine  heir? 
Or  art  thou  (as,  though  rich,  perhaps  thou  art) 
But  poor  in  knowledge,  having  none  to  impart  ? 
Behold  that  figure,  neat  though  plainly  clad, 
His  sprightly  mingled  with  a  shade  of  sad  ; 
Not  of  a  nimble  tongue,  though  now  and  then 
Heard  to  articulate  like  other  men, 
No  jester,  and  yet  lively  in  discourse, 
His  phrase  well-chosen,  clear,  and  full  of  force, 
And  his  address,  if  not  quite  French  in  ease, 
Not  English  stiff,  but  frank  and  form'd  to  please, 
Low  in  the  world,  because  he  scorns  its  arts, 
A  man  of  letters,  mariners,  morals,  parts, 
Unpatronized,  and  therefore  little  known, 
Wise  for  himself  and  his  few  friends  alone  — 
In  him  thy  well-appointed  proxy  see, 
Armed  for  a  work  too  difficult  for  thee  ; 
Prepared  by  taste,  by  learning,  and  true  worth, 
To  form  thy  son,  to  strike  his  genius  forth, 
Beneath  thy  roof,  beneath  thy  eye,  to  prove 
The  force  of  discipline  when  backed  by  love, 
To  double  all  thy  pleasure  in  thy  child, 
His  mind  informed,  his  morals  undefiled. 
Safe  under  such  a  wing,  the  boy  shall  show 
No  spots  contracted  among  grooms  below, 
Nor  taint  his  speech  with  meannesses,  designed 
By  footman  Tom  for  witty  and  refined. 
There  in  his  commerce  with  the  liveried  herd, 
Lurks  the  contagion  chiefly  to  be  feared  ; 
For  since  (so  fashion  dictates)  all,  who  claim 
A  higher  than  a  mere  plebeian  fame, 
Find  it  expedient,  come  what  mischief  may, 
To  entertain  a  thief  or  two  in  pay, 
And  they  that  can  afford  the  expense  of  more, 


382  TIROCINIUM;  OR, 


Some  half  a  dozen,  and  some  half  a  score, 

Great  cause  occurs  to  save  him  from  a  band 

So  sure  to  spoil  him,  and  so  near  at  hand, 

A  point  secured,  if  once  he  be  supplied 

With  some  such  Mentor  always  at  his  side. 

Are  such  men  rare  ?     Perhaps  they  would  abound 

Were  occupation  easier  to  be  found, 

Were  education,  else  so  sure  to  fail, 

Conducted  on  a  manageable  scale, 

And  schools  that  have  outlived  all  just  esteem, 

Exchanged  for  the  secure  domestic  scheme. — 

But  having  found  him,  be  thou  Duke  or  Earl, 

Show  thou  hast  sense  enough  to  prize  the  pearl, 

Arid  as  thou  wouldst  the  advancement  of  thine  heir 

In  all  good  faculties  beneath  his  care, 

Respect,  as  is  but  rational  and  just, 

A  man  deemed  worthy  of  so  dear  a  trust. 

Despised  by  thee,  what  more  can  he  expect 

From  youthful  folly,  than  the  same  neglect  ? 

A  flat  and  fatal  negative  obtains 

That  instant,  upon  all  his  future  pains ; 

His  lessons  tire,  his  mild  rebukes  offend, 

And  all  the  instructions  of  thy  son's  best  friend 

Are  a  stream  choked,  or  trickling  to  no  end. 

Doom  him  not  then  to  solitary  meals, 

But  recollect  that  he  has  sense,  and  feels, 

And  that,  possessor  of  a  soul  refined, 

An  upright  heart,  and  cultivated  mind, 

His  post  not  mean,  his  talents  not  unknown, 

He  deems  it  hard  to  vegetate  alone. 

And  if  admitted  at  thy  board  he  sit, 

Account  him  no  just  mark  for  idle  wit, 

Offend  not  him,  whom  modesty  restrains 

From  repartee,  with  jokes  that  he  disdains, 

Much  less  transfix  his  feelings  with  an  oath, 

Nor  frown  unless  he  vanish  with  the  cloth. — 

And  trust  me,  his  utility  may  reach 

To  more  than  he  is  hired  or  bound  to  teach, 

Much  trash  unuttered,  and  some  ills  undone, 

Through  reverence  of  the  censor  of  thy  son. 

But,  if  thy  table  be  indeed  unclean, 
Foul  with  excess,  and  with  discourse  obscene, 
And  thou  a  wretch,  whom,  following  her  old  plan. 
The  world  accounts  an  honorable  man, 
Because  forsooth  thy  courage  has  been  tried 
And  stood  the  test,  perhaps  on  the  wrong  side ; 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  383 

Though  thou  hadst  never  grace  enough  to  prove 

That  anything  but  vice  could  win  thy  love  ;  — 

Or  hast  thou  a  polite,  card-playing  wife, 

Chained  to  the  routs  that  she  frequents  for  life  ; 

Who,  just  when  industry  begins  to  snore, 

Flies,  winged  with  joy,  to  some  coach-crowded  door  ; 

And  thrice  in  every  winter  throngs  thine  own 

With  half  the  chariots  and  sedans  in  town, 

Thyself  meanwhile  e'en  shifting  as  thou  mayst, 

Not  very  sober  though,  nor  very  chaste  ;- 

Or  is  thine  house,  though  less  superb  thy  rank, 

If  not  a  scene  of  pleasure,  a  mere  blank, 

And  thou  at  best,  and  in  thy  soberest  mood, 

A  trifler  vain,  and  empty  of  all  good  ? 

Though  mercy  for  thyself  thou  canst  have  none, 

Hear  Nature  plead,  show  mercy  to  thy  son, 

Saved  from  his  home,  where  every  day  brings  forth 

Some  mischief  fatal  to  his  future  worth, 

Find  him  a  better  in  a  distant  spot, 

Within  some  pious  pastor's  humble  cot, 

Where  vile  example  (yours  I  chiefly  mean, 

The  most  seducing,  and  the  oftenest  seen) 

May  never  more  be  stamped  upon  his  breast, 

Not  yet  perhaps  incurably  impressed. 

Where  early  rest  makes  early  rising  sure, 

Disease  or  comes  not,  or  finds  easy  cure, 

Prevented  much  by  diet  neat  and  plain  ; 

Or  if  it  enter,  soon  starved  out  again  : 

Where  all  the  attention  of  his  faithful  host, 

Discreetly  limited  to  two  at  most, 

May  raise  such  fruits  as  shall  reward  his  care, 

And  not  at  last  evaporate  in  air : 

Where,  stillness  aiding  study,  and  his  mind, 

Serene,  and  to  his  duties  much  inclined, 

Not  occupied  in  day-dreams,  as  at  home, 

Of  pleasures  past,  or  follies  yet  to  come, 

His  virtuous  toil  may  terminate  at  last 

In  settled  habit  and  decided  taste. — 

But  whom  do  I  advise?  the  fashion-led, 

The  incorrigibly  wrong,  the  deaf,  the  dead  ! 

Whom  care  and  cool  deliberation  suit 

Not  better  much  than  spectacles  a  brute ; 

Who  if  their  sons  some  slight  tuition  share, 

Deem  it  of  no  great  moment  whose,  or  where  ; 

Too  proud  to  adopt  the  thoughts  of  one  unknown, 

And  much  too  gay  to  have  any  of  their  own. 


384  TIROCINIUM;  OR, 


But  courage,  man  !  methought  the  Muse  replied, 
Mankind  are  various,  and  the  world  is  wide : 
The  ostrich,  silliest  of  the  feathered  kind, 
And  formed  of  God,  without  a  parent's  mind, 
Commits  her  eggs,  incautious,  to  the  dust, 
Forgetful  that  the  foot  may  crush  the  trust  } 
And  while  on  public  nurseries  they  rely, 
Not  knowing,  and  too  oft  not  caring,  why, 
Irrational  in  what  they  thus  prefer, 
No  few,  that  would  seem  wise,  resemble  her. 
But  all  are  not  alike.     Thy  warning  voice 
May  here  and  there  prevent  erroneous  choice  ; 
And  some  perhaps,  who,  busy  as  they  are, 
Yet  make  their  progeny  their  dearest  care 
(Whose  hearts  will  ache,  once  told  what  ills  may  reach 
Their  offspring,  left  upon  so  wild  a  beach), 
Will  need  no  stress  of  argument  to  enforce 
The  expedience  of  a  less  adventurous  course  : 
The  rest  will  slight  thy  counsel,  or  condemn  ; 
But  they  have  human  feelings — turn  to  them. 
To  you,  then,  tenants  of  life's  middle  state. 
Securely  placed  between  the  small  and  great, 
Whose  character,  yet  undebauched,  retains 
Two-thirds  of  all  the  virtue  that  remains, 
Who  wise  yourselves,  desire  your  sons  should  learn 
Your  wisdom  and  your  ways — to  you  I  turn. 
Look  round  you  on  a  world  perversely  blind  ; 
See  what  contempt  is  fallen  on  humankind  ; 
See  wealth  abused,  and  dignities  misplaced, 
Great  titles,  offices,  and  trusts  disgraced, 
Long  lines  of  ancestry,  renowned  of  old. 
Their  noble  qualities  all  quenched  and  cold  ; 
See  Bedlam's  closeted  and  handcuffed  charge 
Surpassed  in  frenzy  by  the  mad  at  large ; 
See  great  commanders  making  war  a  trade, 
Great  laywers,  lawyers  without  study  made  : 
Churchmen,  in  whose  esteem  their  best  employ 
Is  odious,  and  their  wages  all  their  joy. 
Who  far  enough  from  furnishing  their  shelves 
With  Gospel  lore,  turn  infidels  themselves  ; 
See  womanhood  despised,  and  manhood  shamed 
With  infamy  too  nauseous  to  be  named, 
Fops  at  all  corners,  ladylike  in  mien, 
Civeted  fellows,  smelt  ere  they  are  seen, 
Else  coarse  and  rude  in  manners,  and  their  tonguo 
On  fire  with  curses  and  with  nonsense  hung, 


A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS.  385 

Now  flushed  with  drunkenness,  now  with  whoredom  pale, 

Their  breath  a  sample  of  last  nights  regale  3 

See  volunteers  in  all  the  vilest  arts, 

Men  well-endowed,  of  honorable  parts, 

Designed  by  Nature  wise,  but  self-made  fools  ; 

All  these,  and  more  like  these,  were  bred  at  schools, 

And  if  it  chance,  as  sometimes  chance  it  will, 

That  though  school-bred  the  boy  be  virtuous  still, 

Such  rare  exceptions,  shining  in  the  dark, 

Prove,  rather  than  impeach,  the  just  remark, 

As  here  and  there  a  twinkling  star  descried 

Serves  but  to  show  how  black  is  all  beside. 

Now  look  on  him,  whose  very  voice  in  tone 

Just  echoes  thine,  whose  features  are  thine  own, 

And  stroke  his  polished  cheek  of  purest  red, 

And  lay  thine  hand  upon  his  flaxen  head, 

And  say, — l4  My  boy,  the  unwelcome  hour  is  come, 

44  When  thou,  transplanted  from  thy  genial  home, 

"  Must  find  a  colder  soil  and  bleaker  air, 

"  And  trust  for  safety  to  a  stranger's  care. 

"  What  character,  what  turn  thou  wilt  assume 

"  From  constant  converse  with  I  know  not  whom  ; 

"Who there  will  court  thy  friendship,  with  what  views 

"And,  artless  as  thou  art,  whom  thou  wilt  choose  ; 

"  Though  much  depends  on  what  thy  choice  shall  be, 

'•  Is  all  chance-medley,  and  unknown  to  me." 

Canst  thou,  the  tear  just  trembling  on  thy  lids, 

And  while  the  dreadful  risk  foreseen  forbids; 

Free,  too,  and  under  no  constraining  force, 

Unless  the  sway  of  custom  warp  thy  course  ; 

Lay  such  a  stake  upon  the  losing  side, 

Merely  to  gratify  so  blind  a  guide  ? 

Thou  canst  not !  Nature,  pulling  at  thine  heart, 

Condemns  the  unfatherly,  the  imprudent  part. 

Thou  wouldst  not,  deaf  to  Nature's  tenderest  plea, 

Turn  him  adrift  upon  a  rolling  sea, 

Nor  say, — "  Go  thither  ;  " — conscious  that  there  lay 

A  brood  of  asps,  or  quicksands,  in  his  way  ; 

Then,  only  governed  by  the  self-same  rule 

Of  natural  pity,  send  him  not  to  school. 

No  ! — guard  him  better.     Is  he  not  thine  own, 

Thyself  in  miniature,  thy  flesh,  thy  bone  ? 

And  hopest  thou  not  ('tis  every  father's  hope) 

That  since  thy  strength  must  with  thy  years  elope, 

And  thou  wilt  need  some  comfort  to  assuage 

Health's  last  farewell,  a  staff  of  thine  old  age, 


386  TIROCINIUM;  OR,  A  REVIEW  OF  SCHOOLS. 

That  then,  in  recompense  of  all  thy  cares, 

Thy  child  shall  show  respect  to  thy  gray  hairs, 

Befriend  thee,  of  all  other  friends  bereft, 

And  give  thy  life  its  only  cordial  left  ? 

Aware  then  how  much  danger  intervenes, 

To  compass  that  good  end,  forecast  the  means. 

His  heart,  now  passive,  yields  to  thy  command ; 

Secure  it  thine,  its  key  is  in  thine  hand. 

If  thou  desert  thy  charge,  and  throw  it  wide, 

Nor  heed  what  guests  there  enter  and  abide, 

Complain  not  if  attachments  iewd  and  base 

Supplant  thee  in  it,  and  usurp  thy  place. 

But  if  thou  guard  its  sacred  chambers  sure 

From  vicious  inmates  and  delights  impure, 

Either  his  gratitude  shall  hold  him  fast, 

And  keep  him  warm  and  filial  to  the  last ; 

Or  if  he  prove  unkind  (as  who  can  say, 

But  being  man,  and  therefore  frail,  he  may) 

One  comfort  yet  shall  cheer  thine  aged  heart ; — 

Howe'er  he  slight  thee,  thou  hast  done  thy  part. 

*'  Oh,  barbarous !  wouldst  thou  with  a  Gothic  hand 

Pull  down  the  schools — what! — all  the  schools  i'  th'  land, 

Or  throw  them  up  to  livery-nags  and  grooms, 

Or  turn  them  into  shops  and  auction-rooms  ?  " 

A  captious  question,  sir,  and  yours  is  one, 

Deserves  an  answer  similar,  or  none. 

Wouldst  thou,  possessor  of  a  flock,  employ 

(Apprised  that  he  is  such)  a  careless  boy, 

And  feed  him  well,  and  give  him  handsome  pay, 

Merely  to  sleep,  and  let  them  run  astray  ? 

Survey  our  schools  and  colleges,  and  see 

A  sight  not  much  unlike  my  simile. 

From  education,  as  the  leading  cause, 

The  public  character  its  color  draws  ; 

Thence  the  prevailing  manners  take  their  cast, 

Extravagant  or  sober,  loose  or  chaste. 

And,  though  I  would  not  advertise  them  yet, 

Nor  write  on  each — "This  building  to  be  let," 

Unless  the  world  were  all  prepared  to  embrace 

A  plan  well  worthy  to  supply  their  place  ; 

Yet,  backward  as  they  are,  and  long  have  been, 

To  cultivate  and  keep  the  MORALS  clean 

(Forgive  the  crime),  I  wish  them,  I  confess, 

Or  better  managed,  or  encouraged  less. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 

1779  TO  1799 


A  TALE,  FOUNDED  ON  A  FACT, 

WHICH  HAPPENED  IN  JANUARY,  1779. 

WHERE  Humber  pours  his  rich  commercial  stream, 
There  dwelt  a  wretch,  who  breathed  but  to  blaspheme  : 
In  subterraneous  caves  his  life  he  led, 
Black  as  the  mine  in  which  he  wrought  for  bread. 
When  on  a  day,  emerging  from  the  deep, 
A  Sabbath-day  (such  sabbaths  thousands  keep  !) 
The  wages  of  his  weekly  toil  he  bore 
To  buy  a  cock — whose  blood  might  win  him  more; 
As  if  the  noblest  of  the  feathered  kind 
Were  but  for  battle  and  for  death  designed  ; 
As  if  the  consecrated  hours  were  meant 
For  sport,  to  minds  on  cruelty  intent ; 
It  chanced  (such  chances  Providence  obey) 
He  met  a  fellow-laborer  on  the  way, 
Whose  heart  the  same  desires  had  once  enflamed; 
But  now  the  savage  temper  was  reclaimed. 
Persuasion  on  his  lips  had  taken  place; 
For  all  plead  well  who  plead  the  cause  of  Grace. 
His  iron  heart  with  scripture  he  assailed, 
Wooed  him  to  hear  a  sermon,  and  prevailed. 
His  faithful  bow  the  mighty  preacher  drew, 
Swift  as  the  lightning-glimpse  the  arrow  flew  ; 
He  wept ;  he  trembled  ;  cast  his  eyes  around, 
To  find  a  worse  than  he  ;  but  none  he  found. 
He  felt  his  sins,  and  wondered  he  should  feel ; 
Grace  made  the  wound,  and  Grace  alone  could  heal 

Now  farewell  oaths,  and  blasphemies,  and  lies ! 
He  quits  the  sinner's  for  the  martyr's  prize. 
That  holy  day  was  washed  with  many  a  tear, 
Gilded  with  hope,  yet  shaded  too  by  fear, 

gn 


388  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  next,  his  swarthy  brethren  of  the  mine 

Learned,  by  his  altered  speech,  the  change  divine ! 

Laughed  when  they  should  have  wept,  and  swore  the  day 

Was  nigh  when  he  would  swear  as  fast  as  they. 

"  No,"  said  the  penitent,  "such  words  shall  share 

This  breath  no  more  ;  devoted  now  to  prayer. 

Oh !  if  Thou  seest  (Thine  eye  the  future  sees) 

That  I  shall  yet  again  blaspheme,  like  these  ; 

Now  strike  me  to  the  ground  on  which  I  kneel, 

Ere  yet  this  heart  relapses  into  steel ; 

Now  take  me  to  that  Heaven  I  once  defied, 

Thy  presence,  Thy  embrace  I " — He  spoke,  and  died  ! 


THE  PINEAPPLE  AND  THE  BEE. 

1779. 

THE  pineapples,  in  triple  row, 
Were  basking  hot,  and  all  in  blow. 
A  bee  of  most  deserving  taste 
Perceived  the  fragrance  as  he  pass'd, 
On  eager  wing  the  spoiler  came, 
And  search'd  for  crannies  in  the  frame, 
Urged  his  attempt  on  every  side, 
To  every  pane  his  trunk  applied  j 
But  still  in  vain,  the  frame  was  tight, 
And  only  pervious  to  the  light : 
Thus  having  wasted  half  the  day, 
He  trimm'd  his  flight  another  way. 

Methinks,  I  said,  in  thee  I  find 
The  sin  and  madness  of  mankind. 
To  joys  forbidden  man  aspires, 
Consumes  his  soul  with  vain  desires  ; 
Folly  the  spring  of  his  pursuit, 
And  disappointment  all  the  fruit. 
While  Cynthio  ogles,  as  she  passes, 
The  nymph  between  two  chariot  glasses, 
She  is  the  pineapple,  and  he 
The  silly  unsuccessful  bee. 
The  maid  who  views  with  pensive  air 
The  showglass  fraught  with  glittering  ware 
Sees  watches,  bracelets,  rings,  and  lockets, 
But  sighs  at  thought  of  empty  pockets  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  389 


Like  thine,  her  appetite  is  keen, 
But  ah,  the  cruel  glass  between  ! 

Our  dear  delights  are  often  such, 
Exposed  to  view,  but  not  to  touch  ; 
The  sight  our  foolish  heart  inflames, 
We  long  for  pineapples  in  frames  ; 
With  hopeless  wish  one  looks  and  lingers ; 
One  breaks  the  glass,  and  cuts  his  fingers ; 
But  they  whom  Truth  and  Wisdom  lead, 
Can  gather  honey  from  a  weed. 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  WORLD  REPROVED; 

OR,    HYPOCRISY  DETECTED.* 

THUS  says  the  prophet  of  the  Turk, 

' '  Good  Mussulman,  abstain  from  pork  ; 

There  is  a  part  in  every  swine 

No  friend  or  follower  of  mine 

May  taste,  whate'er  his  inclination, 

On  pain  of  excommunication." 

Such  Mahomet's  mysterious  charge, 

And  thus  he  left  the  point  at  large. 

[Had  he  the  sinful  part  expressed, 

They  might  with  safety  eat  the  rest ; 

But  for  one  piece  they  thought  it  hard 

From  the  whole  hog  to  be  debarred  ; 

And  set  their  wit  at  work  to  find 

What  joint  the  prophet  had  in  inirid.Jt 

Much  controversy  straight  arose, 

These  choose  the  back,  the  belly  those ; 

By  some  'tis  confidently  said 

He  meant  not  to  forbid  the  head  ; 

While  others  at  that  doctrine  rail, 

And  piously  prefer  the  tail. 

Thus,  conscience  freed  from  every  clog, 

Mahometans  eat  up  the  hog. 

You  laugh- -'tis  well — the  tale  applied 
May  make  you  laugh  on  t'other  side. 

*  It  may  be  proper  to  inform  the  reader  that  this  piece  has  already  appeared  in 
print,  having  found  its  way,  though  with  some  unnecessary  additions  by  an  unknown 
baud,  into  the  Leeds  Journal,  without  the  author's  privity.— (C.  1782.) 

t  The  lines  between  the  brackets  were  added  by  Newton, 


39°  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"  Renounce  the  world  " — the  preacher  cries, 

"  We  do  " — a  multitude  replies. 

While  one  as  innocent  regards 

A  snug  and  friendly  game  at  cards  ; 

And  one,  whatever  you  may  say, 

Can  see  no  evil  in  a  play ; 

Some  love  a  concert,  or  a  race ; 

And  others  shooting,  and  the  chase. 

Reviled  and  loved,  renounced  and  followed, 

Thus,  bit  by  bit,  the  world  is  swallowed ; 

Each  thinks  his  neighbor  makes  too  free, 

Yet  likes  a  slice  as  well  as  he : 

With  sophistry  their  sauce  they  sweeten, 

Till  quite  from  tail  to  snout  'tis  eaten. 


ON  THE  PROMOTION  OF  EDWARD  THURLOW,  ESQ. 

TO  THE  LORD  HIGH  CHANCELLORSHIP  OF  ENGLAND.* 

1779. 

ROUND  Thurlow's  head  in  early  youth, 

And  in  his  sportive  days, 
Fair  Science  pour'd  the  light  of  truth, 

And  Genius  shed  its  rays. 

See !  with  united  wonder  cried 

The  experienced  and  the  sage, 
Ambition  iri  a  boy  supplied 

With  all  the  skill  of  age  ! 

Discernment,  eloquence,  and  grace, 

Proclaim  him  born  to  sway 
The  balance  in  the  highest  place, 

And  bear  the  palm  away. 

The  praise  bestow' d  was  just  and  wise  ; 

He  sprang  impetuous  forth, 
Secure  of  conquest,  where  the  prize 

Attends  superior  worth. 

So  the  best  courser  on  the  plain 

Ere  yet  he  starts  is  known, 
And  does  but  at  the  goal  obtain 

What  all  had  deem'd  his  own. 

*  Thurlow  was  fellow  »Ujrk  with  Cowper,  at  Mr.  Chapman's,  the  solicitor,  Ely. 
place,  Holborn. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  391 


THE  MODERN  PATRIOT. 

REBELLION  is  my  theme  all  day  ; 

I  only  wish  'twould  couie 
(As  who  knows  but  perhaps  it  may  ?) 

A  little  nearer  home. 

Yon  roaring  boys,  who  rave  and  fight 

On  t'other  side  the  Atlantic, 
I  always  held  them  in  the  right, 

But  most  so  when  most  frantic. 

When  lawless  mobs  insult  the  court, 
That  man  shall  be  my  toast, 

If  breaking  windows  be  the  sport, 
Who  bravely  breaks  the  most. 

But  oh !  for  him  my  fancy  culls 
The  choicest  flowers  she  bears, 

Who  constitutionally  pulls 
Your  house  about  your  ears. 

Such  civil  broils  are  my  delight, 

Though  some  folks  can't  endure  them, 

Who  say  the  mob  are  mad  outright, 
And  that  a  rope  most  cure  them. 

A  rope !  I  wish  we  patriots  had 

Such  strings  for  all  who  need  'em — 

What?  hang  a  man  for  going  mad  I 
Then  farewell  British  freedom. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  GLOWWORM. 

A  NIGHTINGALE,  that  all  day  long 
Hath  cheer'd  the  village  with  his  song, 
_    Nor  yet  at  eve  his  note  suspended, 
Nor  yet  when  eventide  was  ended, 
Began  to  feel  as  well  he  might, 
The  keen  demands  of  appetite  ; 
When,  looking  eagerly  around, 
He  spied  far  off,  upon  the  ground, 
A  something  shining  in  the  dark, 
And  knew  the  glowworm  by  his  spark  ; 


V 


392  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


So  stooping  down  from  hawthorn  top, 
He  thought  to  put  him  in  his  crop. 
The  worm,  aware  of  his  intent, 
Harangued  him  thus,  right  eloquent : — 

"  Did  you  admire  my  lamp,"  quoth  he, 
"  As  much  as  I  your  minstrelsy, 
You  would  abhor  to  do  me  wrong, 
As  much  as  I  to  spoil  your  song ; 
For  'twas  the  self-same  power  Divine 
Taught  you  to  sing  and  me  to  shine, 
That  you  with  music,  I  with  light, 
Might  beautify  and  cheer  the  night." 
The  songster  heard  his  short  oration, 
And,  warbling  out  his  approbation, 
Released  him,  as  my  story  tells, 
And  found  a  supper  somewhere  else. 
Hence  jarring  sectaries  may  learn 
Their  real  interest  to  discern  ; 
That  brother  should  not  war  with  brother, 
And  worry  and  devour  each  other  ; 
But  sing  and  shine  with  sweet  consent, 
Till  life's  poor  transient  night  is  spent, 
Respecting  in  each  other's  case 

;,The  gifts  of  nature  and  of  grace. 

Those  Christians  best  deserve  the  name, 

'  Who  studiously  make  peace  their  aim  ; 
Peace  both  the  duty  and  the  prize 


Of  him  that  creeps  and  him  that  flies. 


THE  RAVEN. 

1780. 

A  RAVEN,  while  with  glossy  breast 
Her  new-laid  eggs  she  fondly  press' d, 
And,  on  her  wicker-work  high  mounted. 
Her  chickens  prematurely  counted 
(A  fault  philosophers  might  blame, 
If  quite  exempted  from  the  same), 
En joy'd  at  ease  the  genial  day  ; 
'Twas  April,  as  the  bumpkins  say, 
The  legislature  call'd  it  May.* 


•  Alluding  to  the  change  of  style,  by  which,  in  1752,  eleven  days  were  deducted 
from  the  year.    It  wa&  long  before  the  peasantry  would  accept  the  advanced  dates. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  393 

But  suddenly  a  wind,  as  high 

As  ever  swept  a  winter  sky, 

Shook  the  young  leaves  about  her  ears, 

And  fill'd  her  with  a  thousand  fears, 

Lest  the  rude  blast  should  snap  the  bough, 

And  spread  her  golden  hopes  below. 

But  just  at  eve  the  blowing  weather 

And  all  her  fears  were  hush'd  together  ; 

"And  now,"  quoth  poor  unthinking  Ralph, 

•*  'Tis  over,  and  the  brood  is  safe  ; ' 

(For  ravens,  though,  as  birds  of  omen, 

They  teach  both  conjurers  and  old  women 

To  tell  us  what  is  to  befall, 

Can't  prophesy  themselves  at  all.) 

The  morning  came  when  neighbor  Hodge, 

Who  long  had  inark'd  her  airy  lodge, 

And  destined  all  the  treasure  there 

A  gift  to  his  expecting  fair, 

Climb'd  like  a  squirrel  to  his  dray, 

And  bore  the  worthless  prize  away. 


MORAL. 

Tis  Providence  alone  secures 
In  every  change  both  mine  and  yours : 
Safety  consists  not  in  escape 
Prom  dangers  of  a  frightful  shape ; 
An  earthquake  may  be  bid  to  spare 
The  man  that's  strangled  by  a  hair. 
Fate  steals  along  with  silent  tread, 
Found  oftenest  in  what  least  we  dread, 
Frowns  in  the  storm  with  angry  brow. 
But  in  the  sunshine  strikes  the  blow. 


THE  DOVES  * 

REASONING  at  every  step  he  treads, 

Man  yet  mistakes  his  way, 
While  meaner  things  whom  instinct  leads, 

Are  rarely  known  to  stray. 

•  Probably  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bull.    He  sent  the  fable  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Newton. 


394  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

One  silent  eve  I  wander'd  late, 
And  heard  the  voice  of  love  ; 

The  turtle  thus  address'd  her  mate, 
And  soothed  the  listening  dove : 

"  Our  mutual  bond  of  faith  and  truth 

No  time  shall  disengage, 
Those  blessings  of  our  early  youth, 

Shall  cheer  our  latest  age  : 

"  While  innocence  without  disguise, 

And  constancy  sincere, 
Shall  fill  the  circles  of  those  eyes, 

And  mine  can  read  them  there ; 

"  Those  ills,  that  wait  on  all  below, 
Shall  ne'er  be  felt  by  me, 

Or  gently  felt,  and  only  so, 
As  being  shared  by  thee. 

*'  When  lightnings  flash  among  the  trees, 
Or  kites  are  hovering  near, 

I  fear  lest  thee  alone  they  seize, 
And  know  no  other  fear. 

"  'Tis  then  I  feel  myself  a  wife, 
And  press  thy  wedded  side, 

Resolved  a  union  form'd  for  life 
Death  never  shall  divide. 

'*  But  oh  !  if  fickle  and  unchaste, 
(Forgive  a  transient  thought,) 

Thou  couldst  become  unkind  at  last, 
And  scorn  thy  present  lot. 

0 

"  No  need  of  lightnings  from  on  high, 
Or  kites  with  cruel  beak  ; 

Denied  the  endearments  of  thine  eye, 
This  widow'd  heart  would  break." 

Thus  sang  the  sweet  sequester'd  bird, 
Soft  as  the  passing  wind, 

And  I  recorded  what  I  heard, 
A  lesson  for  mankind. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  395 


ON  THE 

BURNING  OF  LORD  MANSFIELD'S  LIBRARY, 

TOGETHER  WITH   HIS  MSS.,  BY   THE  MOB  IN  THE  MONTH  OIT  JUNB, 

1780. 

So  then — the  Vandals  of  our  isle, 

Sworn  foes  to  sense  and  law, 
Have  burnt  to  dust  a  nobler  pile 

Thau  ever  Roman  saw  1 

And  Murray  sighs  o'er  Pope  and  Swift, 

And  many  a  treasure  more, 
The  well-judged  purchase,  and  the  gift 

That  graced  his  letter'd  store. 

Their  pages  mangled,  burnt,  and  torn, 

The  loss  was  his  alone  ; 
But  ages  yet  to  come  shall  mourn 

The  burning  of  his  own. 


ON  THE  SAME. 

WHEN  wit  and  genius  meet  their  doom 

In  all  devouring  flame, 
They  tell  us  of  the  fate  of  Rome, 

And  bid  us  fear  the  same. 

O'er  Murray's  loss  the  muses  wept, 

They  felt  the  rude  alarm, 
Yet  bless'd  the  guardian  care  that  kept 

His  sacred  head  from  harm. 

There  Memory,  like  the  bee  that's  fed 

From  Flora's  balmy  store, 
The  quintessence  of  all  he  read 

Had  treasured  up  before. 

The  lawless  herd,  with  fury  blind, 
Have  done  him  cruel  wrong ; 

The  flowers  are  gone — but  still  we  find 
The  honey  on  his  tongue. 


396  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  RIDDLE. 

I  AM  just  two  and  two,  I  am  warm,  I  am  cold, 
And  the  parent  of  numbers  that  cannot  be  told, 
I  am  lawful,  unlawful — a  duty,  a  fault — 
I  am  often  sold  dear,  good  for  nothing  when  bought, 
An  extraordinary  boon,  and  a  matter  of  course, 
And  yielded  with  pleasure — when  taken  by  force. 


TO    THE    REV.    MR.    NEWTON, 

ON  HIS  RETURN  FROM  RAMSGATB. 

(Written  in  October,  1780.) 

THAT  ocean  you  have  late  surveyed, 

Those  rocks  I  too  have  seen, 
But  I,  afflicted  and  dismay'd, 

You,  tranquil  and  serene. 

You  from  the  flood-controlling  steep 
Saw  stretch 'd  before  your  view, 

With  conscious  joy,  the  threatening  deep, 
No  longer  such  to  you. 

To  me  the  waves,  that  ceaseless  broke 

Upon  the  dangerous  coast, 
Hoarsely  and  ominously  spoke 

Of  all  my  treasure  lost. 

Your  sea  of  troubles  you  have  past, 
And  found  the  peaceful  shore  ; 

I,  tempest-toss'd,  and  wreck'd  at  last, 
Come  home  to  part  no  more. 


ON  A  GOLDFINCH, 

STARVED  TO  DEATH  IN  HIS  CAGK. 

TIME  was  when  I  was  free  as  air, 
The  thistle's  downy  seed  my  fare, 
My  drink  the  morning  dew  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  397 

I  perch'd  at  will  on  every  spray, 
My  form  genteel,  my  plumage  gay, 
My  strains  forever  new. 

But  gaudy  plumage,  sprightly  strain, 
And  form  genteel  wore  all  in  vain, 

And  of  a  transient  date  ; 

For,  caught,  and  caged,  and  starved  to  death, 
In  dying  sighs  my  little  breath 

Soon  pass'd  the  wiry  grate. 

Thanks,  gentle  swain,  for  all  my  woes, 
And  thanks  for  this  effectual  close 

And  cure  of  every  ill ! 
More  cruelty  could  none  express  ; 
And  I,  if  you  had  shown  me  less, 

Had  been  your  prisoner  still. 


REPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE. 

NOT  TO  BE  FOUND  IX  ANY  OF  THE  BOOKS. 

BETWEEN  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong  ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to 


So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 

With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning  ; 

While  Chief-Baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

"  In  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear, 
And  your  lordship,"  he  said,  "  will  undoubtedly  find, 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind." 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 

"  Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is  ;  in  short, 
Design'd  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

"  Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happen'd,  arid  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 
Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles  then  ? 


398  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"  On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them." 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how), 
He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes  ; 

But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know, 
For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but- 

"That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  daylight  or  candlelight — Eyes  should  be  shut  I" 


A  CARD. 

POOR  Vestris,  grieved  beyond  all  measure, 

To  have  incurred  so  much  displeasure, 

Although  a  Frenchman,  disconcerted, 

And  though  light-heeled,  yet  heavy-hearted, 

Begs  humbly  to  inform  his  friends, 

Next  first  of  April  he  intends 

To  take  a  boat  and  row  right  down 

To  Cuckold's-Point  from  Richmond  town  ; 

And  as  he  goes,  alert  and  gay, 

Leap  all  the  bridges  in  his  way. 

The  boat,  borne  downward  with  the  tide, 

Shall  catch  him  safe  on  t'other  side. 

He  humbly  hopes  by  this  expedient 

To  prove  himself  their  most  obedient. 

(Which  shall  be  always  his  endeavor), 

And  jump  into  the  former  favor. 


ON  THE  HIGH  PRICE  OF  FISH.* 

1781. 

COCOA-NUT  naught, 

Fish  too  dear, 
None  must  be  bought 

For  us  that  are  here : 


*  On  receiving  a  basket  of  fish  fioru  Mrs.  Newton ;  intended  to  dissuade  her  from 
Bending  more  tillthey  were  cheaper. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEA1S.  399 

No  lobster  on  earth, 

That  ever  I  saw, 
To  me  would  be  worth 

Sixpence  a  claw. 

So,  dear  Madam,  wait 

Till  fish  can  be  got 
At  a  reasonable  rate, 

Whether  lobster  or  not ; 

Till  the  French  and  the  Dutch 

Have  quitted  the  seas, 
And  then  send  as  much 

And  as  oft  as  you  please. 


TO  MRS.  NEWTON, 

ON  RKCKIYIXGt  A  BARREL  OF  OYSTERS. 

A  NOBLE  theme  demands  a  noble  verse, 
In  such  I  thank  you  for  your  fine  oysters. 
The  barrel  was  magnificently  large, 
But,  being  sent  to  Gluey  at  free  charge, 
Was  not  inserted  in  the  driver's  list, 
And  therefore  ovcrlook'd,  forgot,  or  miss'd  ; 
For,  when  the  messenger  whom  we  dispatch'd 
Inquired  for  the  oysters,  Hob  his  noddle  scratched  ; 
Denying  that  his  wagon  or  his  wain 
Did  any  such  commodity  contain. 
In  consequence  of  which,  your  welcome  boon 
Did  not  arrive  till  yesterday  at  noon  ; 
In  consequence  of  which  some  chanced  to  die, 
And  some,  though  very  sweet,  were  very  dry. 
Now  Madam  says  (and  what  she  says  must  still 
Deserve  attention,  say  she  what  she  will), 
That  what  we  call  the  diligenee,  be-case 
It  goes  to  London  with  a  swifter  pace, 
Would  better  suit  the  carriage  of  your  gift, 
Returning  downward  with  a  pace  as  swift  ; 
And  therefore  recommends  it  with  this  aim- 
To  save  at  least  three  days, — the  price  the  same  ; 
For  though  it  will  not  carry  or  convey 
For  less  than  twelvepence,  send  whate'er  you  may 
For  oysters  bred  upon  the  salt  sea-shore, 
Pack'd  in  a  barrel,  they  will  charge  no  more. 


4-00 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


News  have  I  none  that  I  can  deign  to  write, 
Save  that  it  rained  prodigiously  last  night  ; 
And  that  ourselves  were,  at  the  seventh  hour, 
Caught  in  the  first  beginning  of  the  shower ; 
But  walking,  running,  and  with  much  ado, 
Got  home — just  time  enough  to  be  wet  through  ; 
Yet  both  are  well,  and,  wondrous  to  be  told, 
Soused  as  we  were,  we  yet  have  caught  no  cold ; 
And  wishing  just  the  same  good  hap  to  you, 
We  say,  good  Madam,  and  good  Sir,  adieu  I 


EPIGRAM. 

1781. 

IF  John  marries  Mary,  and  Mary  alone, 
'Tis  a  very  good  match  between  Mary  and  John. 
Should  John  wed  a  score,  oh  the  claws  and  the  scratches ! 
It  can't  be  a  match : — 'tis  a  bundle  of  matches.* 


TO  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS. 


DEAR  President,  whose  art  sub- 
lime 

Gives  perpetuity  to  time, 
And  bids  transactions  of  a  day, 
That  fleeting  hours  would  waft 

away 

To  dark  futurity,  survive, 
And  in  unfading  beauty  live, — 
You  cannot  with  a  grace  decline 
A  special  mandate  of  the  Nine — 
Yourself,     whatever    task    you 

choose, 

So  much  indebted  to  the  Muse. 
Thus  say  the  sisterhood  :     We 

come, 
Fix  well  your  palette  on  your 

thumb, 

Prepare    the     pencil    and     the 
tints — 


We  come  to  furnish  you  with 

hints. 
French  disappointment,  British 

glory, 

Must  be  the  subject  of  the  story. 
First  strike  a  curve,  a  graceful 

bow, 

Then  slope  it  to  a  point  below  ; 
Your  outline  easy,  airy,  light, 
Fill'd  up  becomes  a  paper  kite. 
Let      independence,     sanguine, 

horrid. 

Blaze  like  a  meteor  in  the  fore- 
head : 
Beneath    (but    lay    aside    your 

graces)  faces, 

Draw     six-and-twenty     rueful 
Each  with  a  staring,  steadfast 

eye, 


*  One  of  the  epigrams  suggested  by  the  Thelyphthora. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


401 


Pix'd  on  his  great  and  good  ally. 
France  flies  the  kite — 'tis  on  the 

wing — 
Britannia's    lightning  cuts  the 

string. 
The  wind  that  raised  it,  ere  it 

ceases. 

Just  rends  it  into  thirteen  pieces, 
Takes  charge  of  every  fluttering 

sheet,  [feet. 

And  lays  them  all  at  George's 

Iberia,  trembling  from  afar, 
Renounces  the  confederate  war  ; 


Her  efforts  and  her  arts  o'erconie, 

France  calls  her  shattered  navies 
home. 

Repenting  Holland  learns  to 
mourn 

The  sacred  treaties  she  has  torn  ; 

Astonishment  and  awe  profound 

Are  stamp'd  upon  the  nations 
round ; 

Without  one  friend,  above  all 
foes, 

Britannia  gives  the  world  re- 
pose. 


POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LADY  AUSTEN. 


DEAR  Anna — between  friend  and 

friend, 
Prose    answers    every    common 

end ; 
Serves,  in  a  plain   and   homely 

way, 
To  express  the  occurrence  of  the 

day; 
Our  health,  the  weather,  and  the 

news, 
What  walks  we  take,  what  books 

we  choose, 
And  all  the  floating  thoughts  we 

find 
Upon  the  surface  of  the  mind. 

But  when  a  poet  takes  the  pen , 
Far  more  alive  than  other  men, 
He  feels  a  gentle  tingling  come 
Down    to   his    finger    and    his 

thumb, 
Derived    from   nature's   noblest 

part. 

The  centre  of  a  glowing  heart : 
And  this  is  what  the  world,  who 

knows 
No  flights  above  the    pitch  of 

prose, 


His  more  sublime  vagaries  slight- 
ing, 

Denominates  an  itch  for  writing. 

No  wonder  I,  who  scribble  rhyme 

To  catch  the  triflers  of  the  time, 

And  tell  them  truths  divine  and 
clear, 

Which,   couclfd  in  prose,  they 
will  not  hear  ; 

Who  labor  hard  to  allure  and 
draw 

The  loiterers  I  never  saw, 

Should  feel  that  itching  and  that 
tingling 

With  all  my  purpose  iritermiri 
gling, 

To  your  intrinsic  merit  true, 

When  call'd  to  address  myself  to 

you. 

Mysterious  are  His  ways,  whose 
power 

Brings    forth    that    unexpected 
hour, 

When  minds  that  never  met  be- 
fore, 

Shall  meet,  unite,  and  part  no 
more : 


402 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


It  is  the  allotment  of  the  skies, 

The  hand  of  the  Supremely 
Wise, 

That  guides  and  governs  our  af- 
fections, 

And  plans  and  orders  our  con- 
nections : 

Directs  us  in  our  distant  road, 

And  marks  the  bounds  of  our 
abode. 

Thus  we  were  settled  when  you 
found  us, 

Peasants  and  children  all  around 
'  us, 

Not  dreaming  of  so  dear  a  friend, 

Deep  in  the  abyss  of  Silver-End.* 

Thus  Martha,  t  even  against  her 
will,  [hill ; 

Perch'd   on  the  top   of  yonder 

And  you,  though  you  must  needs 
prefer 

The  fairer  scenes  of  Sweet  San- 
cerre,J 

Are  come  from  distant  Loire,  to 
choose 

A  cottage  on  the  banks  of  Ouse. 

This  page  of  Providence  quite 
new, 

And  now  just  opening  to  our 
view, 

Employs  our  present  thoughts 
and  pains 

To  guess  and  spell  what  it  con- 
tains : 

But  day  by  day,  and  year  by 
year, 

Will  make  the  dark  enigma 
clear ; 

And  furnish  us,  perhaps,  at  last, 

Like  other  scenes  already  past, 

With  proof,  that  we,  and  our 
affairs, 


Are  part  of  a  Jehovah's  cares ; 
For  God   unfolds    by  slow   de- 
grees 

The  purport  of  his  deep  decrees  •, 
Sheds  every  hour  a  clearer  light 
In  aid  of  our  defective  sight ; 
And  spreads,  at   length,  before 

the  soul, 

A  beautiful  and  perfect  whole, 
Which    busy    man's    inventive 

brain 

Toils  to  anticipate,  in  vain. 
Say,    Anna,   had    you    never 

known 

The  beauties  of  a  rose  full  blown 
Could    you,    though    luminous 

your  eye, 

By  looking  on  the  bud  descry, 
Or  guess,  with  a  prophetic  power, 
The  future  splendor  of  the  flow- 
er? 
Just  so,  the  Omnipotent,    who 

turns 

The  system  of  a  world's    con- 
cerns, 

From  mere  minutiae  can  educe 
Events  of  most  important  use, 
And  bid  a  dawning  sky  display 
The  blaze  of  a  meridian  day. 
The  works  of  man  tend,  one  and 

all, 
As  needs  they  must,  from  great 

to  small  ; 

And  vanity  absorbs  at  length 
Tho      monuments     of     human 

strength. 
But  who  can  tell  how  vast  the 

plan 

Which  this  day's  incident  began? 
Too  small,  perhaps,  the   slight 

occasion 
For  our  dim-sighted  observation; 


»  A  by-part  of  Olney. 

t  Mrs.  Jones,  Lady  Austen's  sister,  who  lived  at  Clifton  Reynea, 
*f  the  Rev.  T.  Joues.  t  Lady  Austen's  place  iu  J 


She  wag  the  wife 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


403 


It  pass'd  unnoticed;  as  the  bird 
That  cleaves  the  yielding  air  un- 
heard. 

And  yet  may  prove  when  under- 
stood 

An  harbinger  of  endless  good. 
Not  that  I  deem,  or  mean  to  call 
Friendship  a  blessing  cheap  or 

small  : 

But  merely  to  remark,  that  ours, 
Like  some  of  Nature's  sweetest 

flowers, 

Rose  from  a  seed  of  tiny  size, 
That  seem'd  to  promise  no  such 
prize ; 


A  transient  visit  intervening, 
And    made    almost    without    a 

meaning, 

(Hardly  the  effect  of  inclination, 
Much  less  of  pleasing  expecta- 
tion,) [gun, 
Produced  a  friendship,  then  be- 
That  has  cemented  us  in  one  ; 
And  placed  it  in  our  powei  to 

prove, 

By  long  fidelity  and  love, 
That       Solomon      has       wisely 

spoken, — 

"  A  threefold  cord  is  not  soon 
broken." 


TO  LADY  AUSTEN  * 

WRITTEN  IN  RAINY  WEATHER. 

(August  12th,  1782.) 

To  watch  the  storms,  and  hear  the  sky 
Give  all  our  almanacs  the  lie  ; 
To  shake  with  cold  and  see  the  plains 
In  Autumn  drowned  with  wintry  rains  ; 
'Tis  thus  I  spend  my  moments  here, 
And  wish  myself  a  Dutch  Mynheer  ; 
I  then  should  have  no  need  of  wit ; 
For  lumpish  Hollander  unfit ! 
Nor  should  I  then  repine  at  mud, 
Or  meadows  deluged  by  a  flood  ; 
But  in  a  bog  live  well  content, 
And  find  it  just  my  element ; 
Should  be  a  clod  and  not  a  man, 
Nor  wish  in  vain  for  Sister  Ann, 
With  charitable  aid  to  drag 
My  mind  out  of  its  proper  quag  ; 
Should  have  the  genius  of  a  boor 
And  no  ambition  to  have  more. 


*  Printed  by  himself. 


404  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

HEROISM. 

THERE  was  a  time  when  ^Etna's  silent  fire 

Slept  unperceived,  the  mountain  yet  entire  ; 

When,  conscious  of  no  danger  from  below, 

She  towered  a  cloud-capped  pyramid  of  snow. 

No  thunders  shook  with  deep  intestine  sound 

The  blooming  groves  that  girdled  her  around, 

Her  unctuous  olives,  and  her  purple  vines, 

(Unfelt  the  fury  of  those  bursting  mines) 

The  peasant's  hopes,  and  not  in  vain,  assured, 

In  peace  upon  her  sloping  sides  matured. 

When  on  a  day  like  that  of  the  last  doom, 

A  conflagration  laboring  in  her  womb, 

She  teemed  and  heaved  with  an  infernal  birth, 

That  shook  the  circling  seas  and  solid  earth. 

Dark  and  voluminous  the  vapors  rise, 

And  hang  their  horrors  in  the  neighboring  skies, 

While  through  the  Stygian  veil  that  blots  the  day, 

In  dazzling  streaks  the  vivid  lightnings  play. 

But  oh !  what  Muse,  and  in  what  powers  of  song, 

Can  trace  the  torrent  as  it  burns  along  ? 

Havoo  and  devastation  in  the  van, 

It  marches  o'er  the  prostrate  works  of  man — 

Vines,  olives,  herbage,  forests  disappear, 

And  all  the  charms  of  a  Sicilian  year. 

Revolving  seasons,  fruitless  as  they  pass, 
See  it  an  uninformed  and  idle  mass  ; 
Without  a  soil  to  invite  the  tiller's  care, 
Or  blade  that  might  redeem  it  from  Despair. 
Yet  Time  at  length  (what  will  riot  Time  achieve  ?) 
Clothes  it  with  earth,  and  bids  the  produce  live. 
Once  more  the  spiry  myrtle  crowns  the  glade, 
And  ruminating  flocks  enjoy  the  shade. 
O  bliss  precarious,  and  unsafe  retreats  ! 
O  charming  Paradise  of  shortlived  sweets  ! 
The  self-same  gale  that  wafts  the  fragrance  round, 
Brings  to  the  distant  ear  a  sullen  sound  : 
Again  the  mountain  feels  the  imprisoned  foe, 
Again  pours  ruin  on  the  vale  below, 
Ten  thousand  swains  the  wasted  scene  deplore, 
That  only  future  ages  can  restore. 

Ye  nionarchs,  whom  the  lure  of  honor  draws, 
Who  write  in  blood  the  merits  of  your  cause, 
Who  strike  the  blow,  then  plead  your  own  defence. 
Glory  your  aim,  but  Justice  your  pretence  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Behold  in  ^Etna's  emblematic  fires 

The  mischiefs  your  ambitious  Pride  inspires  ! 

Fast  by  the  stream  that  bounds  your  just  domain, 
And  tells  you  where  ye  have  a  right  to  reign, 
A  nation  dwells,  not  envious  of  your  throne, 
Studious  of  peace,  their  neighbors'  and  their  own. 
Ill  fated  race  !  how  deeply  must  they  rue 
Their  only  crime,  vicinity  to  you  ! 
The  trumpet  sounds,  your  legions  swarm  abroad, 
Through  the  ripe  harvest  lies  their  destined  road  ; 
At  every  step  beneath  their  feet  they  tread 
The  life  of  multitudes,  a  nation's  bread  ! 
Earth  seems  a  garden  in  its  loveliest  dress 
Before  them,  and  behind  a  wilderness; 
Famine,  and  Pestilence,  her  firstborn  son, 
Attend  to  finish  what  the  sword  begun  : 
And  echoing  praises,  such  as  fiends  might  earn, 
And  Folly  pays,  resound  at  your  return. 
A  calm  succeeds  —  but  Plenty,  with  her  train 
Of  heartfelt  joys  succeeds  not  soon  again  ; 
And  years  of  pining  indigence  must  show 
What  scourges  are  the  gods  that  rule  below. 

Yet  man,  laborious  man,  by  slow  degrees, 
(Such  is  his  thirst  of  opulence  and  ease) 
Plies  all  the  sinews  of  industrious  toil, 
Gleans  up  the  refuse  of  the  general  spoil, 
Rebuilds  the  towers  that  smoked  upon  the  plain, 
And  the  sun  gilds  the  shining  spires  ajjain. 

Increasing  commerce  and  reviving  art 
Renew  the  quarrel  on  the  conqueror's  part  ; 
And  the  sad  lesson  must  be  learned  once  more, 
That  wealth  within  is  ruin  at  the  door. 
What  are  ye,  monarchs,  laurelled  heroes,  say, 
But  ^Itnas  of  the  suffering  world  ye  sway  ? 
Sweet  Nature,  stripped  of  her  embroidered  robe, 
Deplores  the  wasted  regions  of  her  globe, 
And  stands  a  witness  at  Truth's  awful  bar, 
To  prove  you  there  destroyers,  as  ye  are. 

O  place  me  in  some  Heaven-protected  isle, 
Where  Peace,  and  Equity,  and  Freedom  smile  ; 
Where  no  volcano  pours  his  fiery  flood, 
No  crested  warrior  dips  his  plume  in  blood  ; 
Where  Power  secures  what  Industry  has  won  ; 
Where  to  succeed  is  not  to  be  undone  ; 
A  land  that  distant  tyrants  hate  in  vain, 
In  Britain's  isle,  beneath  a  George's  reign. 


406  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE  FLATTING  MILL. 

AN  ILLUSTRATION. 

WHEN  a  bar  of  pure  silver  or  ingot  of  gold 
Is  sent  to  be  flatted  or  wrought  into  length, 

It  is  pass'd  between  cylinders  often,  and  roll'd 
In  an  engine  of  utmost  mechanical  strength. 

Thus  tortured  and  squeezed,  at  last  it  appears 
Like  a  loose  heap  of  ribbon,  a  glittering  show, 

Like  music  it  tinkles  and  rings  in  your  ears, 
And  warm'd  by  the  pressure  is  all  in  a  glow. 

This  process  achieved,  it  is  doom'd  to  sustain 
The  thump  after  thump  of  a  gold-beater's  mallet, 

And  at  last  is  of  service  in  sickness  or  pain 
To  cover  a  pill  for  a  delicate  palate. 

Alas  for  the  poet !  who  dares  undertake 
To  urge  reformation  of  national  ill — 

His  head  and  his  heart  are  both  likely  to  ache 
With  the  double  employment  of  mallet  and  mill. 

If  he  wish  to  instruct,  he  must  learn  to  delight, 
Smooth,  ductile,  and  even,  his  fancy  must  flow 

Must  tinkle  and  glitter  like  gold  to  the  sight, 
And  catch  in  its  progress  a  sensible  glow. 

After  all,  he  must  beat  it  as  thin  and  as  fine 

As  the  leaf  that  enfolds  what  an  invalid  swallows  ; 

For  truth  is  unwelcome,  however  divine, 
And  unless  you  adorn  it,  nausea  follows. 


FROM  A  LETTER  TO  THE  REV.  MR.  NEWTON, 

RECTOR  OF  ST.  MARY  WOOLNOTH. 
(May  28th,  1782.) 

SAYS  the  pipe  to  the  snuff-box,  "  I  can't  understand 
What  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  see  in  your  face, 

That  you  are  in  fashion  all  over  the  land, 
And  I  am  so  much  fallen  into  disgrace. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


407 


"  Do  but  see  what  a  pretty  contemplative  air 
I  give  to  the  company,  —  pray  do  but  note  'em,  — 

You  would  think  that  the  wise  men  of  Greece  were  all  there, 
Or,  at  least,  would  suppose  them  the  wi^'e  men  of  Gotham, 


"My  breath  is  as  sweet  as  the  breath  of  blown  roses, 
While  you  are  a  nuisance  where'er  you  appear  ; 

There  is  nothing  but  snivelling  and  blowing  of  noses, 
Such  a  noise  as  turns  any  man's  stomach  to  hear." 

Then,  lifting  his  lid  in  a  delicate  way, 

And  opening  his  mouth  with  a  smile  quite  engaging, 
The  box  in  reply  was  heard  plainly  to  say, 

"  What  a  silly  dispute  is  this  we  are  waging  ! 

"  If  you  have  a  little  of  merit  to  claim, 

You  may  thank  the  sweet-smelling  Virginian  weed  ; 
And  I,  if  I  seem  to  deserve  any  blame, 

The  beforemention'd  drug  in  apology  plead. 

"  Thus  neither  the  praise  nor  the  blame  is  our  own, 
No  room  for  a  sneer,  much  less  a  cacliinnus  ; 

We  are  vehicles,  not  of  tobacco  alone, 

But  of  anything  else  they  may  choose  to  put  in  us." 


TO  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  BULL.* 

(.Iune22d,  1782.) 


MY  DKAR  FRIEND, 
If  reading  verse  be  your  delight, 
"Tis  mine  as  much,  or  more  to 

write ; 
But  what  we  would,  so  weak  is 

man, 

Lies  off  remote  from  what  we  can. 
For  instance,  at  this  very  time 
I  feel  a  wish  by  cheerful  rhyme 
To  soothe  my  friend,  and  had  I 

power. 

To  cheat  him  of  an  anxious  hour; 
Not  meaning  (for  I  must  confess, 
It  were  but  foily  to  suppress) 
lis  pleasure  or  his  good  alone, 
But  squinting  partly  at  my  own. 


But  though  the  sun  is  flaming 

high  [sky, 

In  the  centre  of  yon  arch,  the 

And  he  had  once  (and  who  but 

he?) 

The  name  for  setting  genius  free 
Yet  whether  poets  of  past  day? 
Yielded  him  undeserved  praise, 
And  he  by  no  uncommon  lot 
Was   famed  for   virtues  he  hart 

not ; 

Or  whether,  which  is  like  enough, 
His  Highness   may  have   taken 

huff, 

So  seldom  sought  with  invoca- 
tion. 


*  An  Independent  Minister  who  resided  at  Newport  Pagnall,  five  miles  from  Oln«y, 


\ 


408 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Since  it  has  been  the   reigning 

fashion 

To  disregard  his  inspiration, 
I  seem  no  brighter  in  my  wits, 
For  all  the  radiance  he  emits, 
Than  if  I  saw  through  midnight 

vapor, 
The    glimmering   of  a   farthing 

taper. 

Oh  for  a  succedaneum,  then, 
To  accelerate  a  creeping  pen ! 
Oh  for  a  ready  succedaneum, 
Quod  caput, cerebrum, etcranium 
Pondere  liberet  exoso, 
Et  morbo  jam  caliginoso  ! 
'Tis  here  ;    this    oval    box    well 

fill'd 

With  best  tobacco,  finely  milPd, 
Beats  all  Anticyra's  pretences 
To   disengage    the    encumber'd 

senses. 
Oh   Nymph    of    transatlantic 

fame, 
Where'er  thine  haunt,  whate'er 

thy  name, 

Whether  reposing  on  the  side 
Of  Oroonoquo's  spacious  tide, 
Or  listening  with  delight  not 

small 

To  Niagara's  distant  fall, 
'Tis  thine  to  cherish  and  to  feed 
The    pungent    nose  -  refreshing 

weed, 
Which,    whether    pulverized    it 

gain 
A  speedy  passage  to  the  brain, 


Or,  whether,  touch'd  with  fire,  it 

rise 

In  circling  eddies  to  the  skies, 
Does  thought  more  quicken  and 

refine 
Than  all  the  breath  of  all  the 

Nine — 

Forgive  the  bard,  if  bard  he  be. 
Who  once  too  wantonly  made 

free, 

To  touch  with  a  satiric  wipe 
That  symbol  of  thy  power,  the 

pipe; 
So    may    no    blight   infest  thy 

plains 

And  no  unseasonable  rains  ; 
And  so  may  smiling  peace  once 

more 

Visit  America's  sad  shore  ; 
And  thou,  secure  from  all  alarms 
Of  thundering  drums  and  glitter- 
ing arms, 
Rove    unconfined    beneath  the 

shade 
Thy  wide  expanded  leaves  have 

made ; 

So  may  thy  votaries  increase, 
And  fumigation  never  cease. 
May  Newton    with  renew'd  de. 

lights 

Perform  thy  odoriferous  rites, 
Which   clouds    of  incense    half 

divine 

Involve  thy  disappearing  shrine : 
And  so  may  smoke-inhaling  Bull 
Be  always  filling,  never  full. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

AMICITIA   NISI   INTER   BONOS  ESSE   NON  POTEST. — CiCBTO. 


WHAT  virtue,  or  what  mental 

grace, 

But  men  unqualified  and  base 
Will  boast  it  their  possession  ? 


Profusion  apes  the  noble  part 
Of  liberality  of  heart, 

And  dulness  of  discretion* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


409 


If  every  polish'd  gem  we  find, 
Illuminating  heart  or  mind, 

Provoke  to  imitation, 
No  wonder  friendship  does  the 

same, 
That  jewel  of  the  purest  flame, 

Or  rather  constellation. 

No  knave  but  boldly  will  pretend 
The  requisites  that  form  a  friend, 

A  real  and  a  sound  one  ; 
Nor  any  fool  he  would  deceive 
But  prove  as  ready  to  believe, 

And  dream  that  he  had  found 
one. 

Candid,  and  generous,  and  just, 
Boys  care  but  little  whom  they 

trust, 

An  error  soon  corrected, — 
For  who  but  learns  in  riper  years 
That  man,  when  smoothest  he 

appears, 
Is  most  to  be  suspected  ? 

But  here  again  a  danger  lies, 
Lest,    having     misapplied    our 
eyes, 

And  taken  trash  for  treasure, 
We  should  unwarily  conclude 
Friendship  a  false  ideal  good, 

A  mere  Utopian  pleasure. 

An  acquisition  rather  rare 
Is  yet  110  subject  of  despair  ; 

Nor  is  it  wise  complaining, 
If  either  on  forbidden  ground, 
Or  where  it  was  not  to  be  found, 

We  sought  without  attaining. 

No  friendship  will  abide  the  test, 
That  stands  on  sordid  interest, 

Or  mean  self-love  erected  ; 
Nor  such  as  may  a  while  subsist 
Between  the  sot  and  sensualist, 

For  vicious  ends  connected. 


Who  seeks  a  friend,  should  come 

disposed 

To    exhibit  in    full   bloom   dis- 
closed 

The  graces  and  the  beauties 
That   form    the     character    he 

seeks ; 

For  'tis  a  union  that  bespeaks 
Reciprocated  duties. 

Mutual  attention  is  implied, 
And  equal  truth  on  either  side, 

And  constantly  supported  ; 
'Tis  senseless  arrogance  to  accuse 
Another  of  sinister  views, 

Our  own  as  much  distorted. 

But  will  sincerity  suffice  ? 
It  is  indeed  above  all  price, 

And  must  be  made  the  basis  ; 
But  every  virtue  of  the  soul 
Must   constitute   the    charming 
whole, 

All  shining  in  their  places 

A  fretful  temper  will  divide 
The   closest   knot  that  may  be 
tied, 

By  ceaseless  sharp  corrosion  ; 
A  temper  pasrsionate  and  fierce 
May  suddenly  your  joys  disperse 

At  one  immense  explosion. 

In  vain  the  talkative  unite 

In  hopes  of  permanent  delight ; 

The  secret  just  committed, 
Forgetting  its  important  weight, 
They  drop  through  mere  desire 
to  prate, 

And  by  themselves  outwitted. 

How  bright  soe'er  the  prospect 

seems, 
All  thoughts   of  friendship   are 

but  dreams, 

If  envy  chance  to  creep  in  ; 
An  envious  man,  if  you  succeed^ 


4io 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


May     prove     a    dangerous    foe 

indeed, 

But  not  a  friend  worth  keep- 
ing. 

As  envy  pines  at  good  possess'd, 
So  jealousy  looks  fortn  distress'd 
Oh  good  that  seems  approach- 
ing, 

And  if  success  his  steps  attend, 
Discerns  a  rival  in  a  friend, 
And  hates  him   for  encroach- 
ing. 

Hence     authors     of     illustrious 

name, 
(Unless  belied  by  common  fame,) 

Are  sadly  prone  to  quarrel, 
To  deern  the  wit  a  friend  displays 
A  tax  upon  their  own  just  praise, 

And  pluck  each  other's  laurel. 

A  man  renowri'd  for  repartee 
Will  seldom  scruple  to  make  free 

With  friendship's  finest  feeling, 
Will   thrust  a  dagger   at   your 

breast, 
And  say  he  wounded  you  in  jest, 

By  way  of  balm  for  healing. 

Whoever  keeps  an  open  ear 
For  tattlers  will  be  sure  to  hear 

The  trumpet  of  contention  ; 
Aspersion  is  the  babbler's  trade, 
To  listen  is  to  lend  him  aid, 

And  rush  into  dissension. 

A  friendship  that  in  frequent  fits 
Of  controversial  rage  emits 

The  sparks  of  disputation, 
Like  Hand  -  in  -  Hand  insurance 

plates, 
Most  unavoidably  creates 

the  thought  of  conflagration. 

Some   fickle   creatures   boast   a 

soul 
True  as  a  needle  to  the  pole, 


Their  humor  yet  so  various— 
They  manifest  their   whole  life 

through 
The  needle's  deviations  too, 

Their  love  is  so  precarious. 

The  great  and  small  but  rarely 

meet 

On  terms  of  amity  complete  ; 
Plebeians  must  surrender, 
And   yield   so   much    to   noble 

folk, 

It  is  combining  fire  with  smoke, 
Obscurity  with  splendor. 

Some  are  so  placid  and  serene 
(As  Irish  bogs  are  always  green) 
They  sleep  secure  from  wak- 
ing; 

And  are  indeed  a  bog,  that  bears 
Your  unanticipated  cares 

Unmoved  and  without  quak- 
ing. 

Courtier  and  patriot  cannot  mix 
Their  heterogeneous  politics 
Without  an  effervescence, 
Like  that  of  salts   with   lemon 

juice, 
Which   does   not  yet  like  that 

produce 
A  friendly  coalescence. 

Religion  should  extinguish  strife, 
And   make   a   calm   of  human 

life; 
But  friends   that  chance    to 

differ 
On  points  which  God  has  left  at 

large, 
How  fiercely  will  they  meet  anc| 

charge ! 
No  combatants  are  stiffer. 

To  prove  at  last  my  main  intent 
Needs  no  expense  of  argument, 
No  cutting  and  contriving — 
Seeking  a  real  friend  we  seem 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


411 


To  adopt  the  chemist's  golden 

dream, 

With  still  less  hope  of  thriv- 
ing. 

Sometimes  the  fault  is  all  our 

own, 
Some  blemish  in  due  time  made 

known 

By  trespass  or  omission  : 
Sometimes   occasion    brings  to 

light 
Our   friend's   defect,    long    hid 

from  sight, 
And  even  from  suspicion. 

Then  judge  yourself,  and  prove 

your  man 
As  circumspectly  as  you  can, 

And,  having  made  election, 
Beware  no  negligence  of  yours, 
Such  as  a  friend  but  ill  endures, 

Enfeeble  his  affection. 

That  secrets  are  a  sacred  trust, 
That  friends  should  be  sincere 

and  just, 

That  constancy  befits  them, 
Are  observations  on  the  case, 
That  savor  much   of  common- 
place, 

And    all    the    world    admits 
them. 

But  'tis  not  timber,  lead,  and 

stone, 
\n  architect  requires  alone 

To  finish  a  fine  building — 
The  palace  were  but  half  com- 
plete, 

If  he  could  possibly  forget 
The  carving  and  the  gilding. 

The  man  that  hails  you  Tom  or 

Jack, 
And   proves  by   thumps    upon 

your  back 
How  he  esteems  your  merit, 


Is  such  a  friend,  that  one  had 

need 

Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed 
To  pardon  or  to  bear  it. 

As  similarity  of  mind, 

Or  something  not  to  be  defined, 

First  fixes  our  attention; 
So  manners  decent  and  polite, 
The  same  we  practised  at  first 
sight, 

Must  save  it  from  declension. 

Some  act    upon    this    prudent 

plan, 
"Say  little,   and  hear  all  you 

can." 

Safe  policy,  but  hateful — 
So    barren    sands    imbibe    the 

shower, 
But  render    neither    fruit   nor 

flower, 
Unpleasant  and  ungrateful. 

The  man  I  trust,  if  shy  to  me, 
Shall  find  me  as  reserved  as  he, 

No  subterfuge  or  pleading 
Shall  win  my  confidence  again; 
I  will  by  no  means  entertain 

A  spy  on  my  proceeding. 

These  samples — for  alas  I  at  last 
These  are  but  samples,  and  a 

taste 

Of  evils  yet  unmention'd — 
May  prove  the  task  a  task  in- 
deed 

In  which  'tis   much  if  we  suc- 
ceed, 
However  well  intention'd. 

Pursue  the  search,  and  you  will 

find 
Good   sense    and  knowledge  of 

mankind 

To  be  at  least  expedient, 
And,  after  summing  all  the  rest, 


412 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Religion  ruling  in  the  breast 
A  principal  ingredient. 

The  noblest  friendship  ever 
shown  [known, 

The  Saviour's  history  makes 
Though  some  have  turn'd  and 
turri'd  it ; 

And,  whether  being  crazed  or 
blind, 


Or  seeking  with  a  bias'd  mind, 
Have  not,it  seems, discern 'd  it. 

O  Friendship !  if  my  soul  forego 
Thy   dear   delights   while   here 
below, 

To  mortify  and  grieve  me, 
May  I  myself  at  last  appear 
Unworthy,  base,  and  insincere 

Or  may  my  friend  deceive  nie 


THE  COLUBRIAD  * 

CLOSE  by  the  threshold  of  a  door  nail'd  fast 

Three  kittens  sat ;  each  kitten  look'd  aghast ; 

I  passing  swift  and  inattentive  by, 

At  the  three  kittens  cast  a  careless  eye, 

Not  much  concern 'd  to  know  what  they  did  there, 

Not  deeming  kittens  worth  a  poet's  care. 

But  presently  a  loud  and  furious  hiss 

Caused  me  to  stop,  and  to  exclaim,  "  What's  this?  " 

When  lo  !  upon  the  threshold  met  my  view, 

With  head  erect,  and  eyes  of  fiery  hue, 

A  viper,  long  as  Count  de  Grasse's  queue. f 

Forth  from  his  head  his  forked  tongue  he  throws 

Darting  it  full  against  a  kitten's  nose, 

Who  having  never  seen  in  field  or  house 

The  like,  sat  still  and  silent  as  a  mouse  ; 

Only  projecting  with  attention  due, 

Her  whisker'd  face,  she  ask'd  him,  "  Who  are  you  ? ' 

On  to  the  hall  went  I,  with  pace  not  slow, 

But  swift  as  lightning,  for  a  long  Dutch  hoe, 

With  which,  well-arm'd,  I  hasteri'd  to  the  spot, 

To  find  the  viper,— but  I  found  him  not. 

And,  turning  up  the  leaves  and  shrubs  around, 

Found  only—that  he  was  not  to  be  found. 

But  still  the  kittens,  sitting  as  before, 

Sat  watching  close  the  bottom  of  the  door. 

"  I  hope,"  said  I,  "  the  villain  I  would  kill 

Has  slipp'd  between  the  door  and  the  door-sill ; 


*  '«  Colubriad  "  is  a  mock  heroic  title  from  Coluber,  a  viper  or  snake. 

t  Count  de  Grasse  was  the  French  admiral  defeated  by  Rodney,  April  12th,  1782 
He  was  famous  for  wearing  a  long  queue  turned  up  and  tied  with  ribbon.  It  was  «xag 
gerated  in  the  caricatures  of  the  day. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  if  I  make  despatch  and  follow  hard, 

No  doubt  but  1  shall  fliid  him  in  the  yard  : ' 

For  long  ere  now  it  should  have  been  rehearsed, 

'Twas  in  the  garden  that  I  found  him  first. 

Even  there  I  found  him,  there  the  full-grown  cat 

His  head,  with  velvet  paw,  did  gently  pat, 

As  curious  as  the  kittens  erst  had  been 

To  learn  what  this  phenomenon  might  mean. 

Fill'd  with  heroic  ardor  at  the  sight, 

And  fearing  every  moment  he  would  bite, 

And  rob  our  household  of  our  only  cat 

That  was  of  age  to  combat  with  a  rat, 

With  outstretch'd  hoe  I  slew  him  at  the  door, 

And  taught  him  NEVER  TO  COME  THERE  NO  MORE. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  HARE. 


/  ERE     lies,    whom    hound    did 

ne'er  pursue, 

Nor  swifter  greyhound  follow, 
*/hose  foot  ne'er  tainted  morn- 
ing dew, 

Nor    ear    heard    huntsman's 
halloo. 

Old  Tiney,  surliest  of  his  kind, 
Who,  nursed  with  tender  care, 

And   to   domestic   bounds    con- 
fined, 
Was  still  a  wild  Jack  hare. 

Though  duly  from  my  hand  he 

took. 

His  pittance  every  night, 
[le  did  it  with  a  jealous  look, 
And,  when   he  could,    would 
bite. 


Sis  diet  was  of  wheaten  bread, 
And  milk,  and  oats,  and  straw; 

Thistles,  or  lettuces  instead, 
With  sand  to  scour  his  niaw. 

On   twigs   of    hawthorn  he    re- 
galed, 
On  pippins'  russet  peel, 


And,    when     his    juicy    salads 

fail'd, 
Sliced  carrot  pleased  him  well. 

A  Turkey  carpet  was  his  lawn, 
Whereon  he  loved  to  bound, 

To  skip  and  garni  ol  like  a  fawn, 
And  swinfi  his  rump  around^ 

His    frisking    was    at     evening 

hours, 

For  then  he  lost  his  fear, 
But   most   before    approaching 

showers, 
Or  when  a  storm  drew  near. 


Eight  years  arid  five  round  roll 
ing  moons 

He  thus  saw  steal  away, 
Dozing  out  all  his  idle  noons, 

And  every  night  at  play. 

I  kept  him  for  his  humor's  sake, 
For  he  would  oft  beguile 

My  heart  of  thoughts  that  made 

it  ache, 
And  force  me  to  a  smile. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But  nov    beneath   his   walnut 

shade 

He  finds  his  long  last  home, 
And  waits,  in  snug  concealment 

laid, 
Till  gentler  Puss  shall  come. 


He,  still    more   aged,    feels    the 

shocks 

From  which  no  care  can  save, 
And,    partner   once   of    Tiney'« 

box, 
Must  soon  partake  his  grave 


EPITAPHIUM  ALTERUM. 


Hie  etiam  jacet, 
Qui  totum  novennium  vixit, 

Puss. 

Siste  paulisper, 
Qui  praeteriturus  es, 
Et  tecum  sic  reputa — 
Hunc  neque  caiiis  venaticus, 


Nee  plumbum  missile, 

Nee  laqueus, 
Nee  imbres  nimii, 
Confecere : 

Tameii  mortuus  est — 
Et  moriar  ego. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

WRITTEN   WHEN  THE  NEWS   ARRIVED.* 
TO   THE  MAKCH  IN    SCIPIO. 


TOLL  for  the  brave ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  I 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore  I 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

dad  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  over-set; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 


His  last  sea-fight  is  fought ; 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak  ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath  ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes, 


*  The  Royal  George,  108  guns,  was  lost  off  Spithead,  on  the  29th  of  August,  1782.  She 
was  undergoing  some  repairs  and  was  careened  over,  when  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  over- 
set her  and  she  sank.  A  great  number  of  persons  were  on  board  at  the  time  from 
Portsmouth.  Two  or  tiiree  hundred  bodies  floated  on  shore,  and  were  buried  in  Kings* 
ton  Churchyard. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


415 


Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 
And  she  may  float  again 

Pull   charged     with    England's 

thunder, 
And  plough  the  distant  main. 


But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall   plough    the    wave    no 
more. 


IN"  SUBMERSIONEM    NAVIGII    CCTI,   GEORGIUS   RE- 
GALE NOMEN,  INDITUM. 


PLAXGIMUS  fortes.     Periere  for- 
tes, 

Patrium  propter  perit-re  littus 
Bis  quater  centum  ;  subito  sub 


alto, 


2Equore  mersi. 


Navis,  innitens  lateri,  jacebat, 
Malus  ad  summas  trepidabat  un- 

das, 
Cum   levis,   funes  quatiens,  ad 

iiiium 

Depulit  aura. 

Plangimus  fortes.     Nimis,   heu, 

caducam 

Fortibus  vitem  voluere  parcse, 
Nee   sinunt  ultra  tibi    nos    re- 


centes, 


Nectere  laurus. 


Magne,  qui  nomen,  licet  inca- 

noruin  [listi ! 

Traditum   ex  multis  atavis  tu- 

At  tuos  olim  memorabit  aevum 

Omne  triumphos. 


Non  hyems  illos  furibunda  mer- 

sit, 
Non  mari  in  clause  scopuli  la- 

tentes, 

Fissa  non  rimis  abies,  nee  atrox 
Abstulit  ensis. 

Navitffl  sed  turn  minium  jocosi 
Voce  fallebant  hilari  laborem 
Et  quiescebat,   calamoque  dex- 
tram 

Impleverat  heros. 

Vos,  quibus  cordi  est  grave  opus 

I)itinique, 

H  urn  idiim  ex  alto  spolium  levate, 
Et  putrescentes  snb  aquis  amicos 
Keddiu;  amicisl 

Hi  quidem  (§fcdisplacuit)fa^re: 
Sed    ratis,    noriduin    putris,   ire 

possit 
Rursus  in  bellum,  Britonumque 


nomen 


Tollere  ad  astra. 


ODE  TO  PEACE. 


COME,  peace  of  mind,  delightful 

guest ! 
Return   and   make   thy  downy 

nes* 


Once  more  in  this  sad  heart : 
Nor  riches  I,  nor  power  pursue, 
Nor  hold  forbidden  joys  in  view, 

We  therefore  need  not  part. 


4x6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Where   wilt   thou  dwell,  if  not 
with  me, 

From    Avarice    and    Ambition 

free, 
And  Pleasure's  fatal  wiles  ? 

For  whom,  alas  !  dost  thou  pre- 
pare 

The  sweets  that  I  was  wont  to 

share, 
The  banquet  of  thy  smiles  ? 

The   great,  the  gay,  shall  they 

partake 
The   Heaven   that    thou    alone 

canst  make  ? 


And  wilt  thou  quit  the  stream 
That  murmurs  through  the  dewy 

mead, 
The  grove,  and  the  sequestered 

shed, 
To  be  a  guest  with  them  ? 

For  thee  I  panted,  thee  I  prized, 
For  thee  I  gladly  sacrificed 
Whate'er  I  loved  before, 
And  shall  I  see  thee  start  away, 
And  helpless,  hopeless,  hear  thee 

say, 

"Farewell!      we      meet      no 
more  ?" 


SONG.— ON  PEACE. 

AIR — "  My  fond  Shepherds  of  late. 


i , 


No  longer  I  follow  a  sound  ; 
No  longer  a  dream  I  pursue  ; 

0  happiness  !  riot  to  be  found, 
Unattainable  treasure,  adieu ! 

1  have  sought  thee  in  splendor 

and  dress, 
In  the  regions  of  pleasure  and 

taste  ; 
I  have  sought  thee,  and  seemed 

possess, 

But  have  proved  thee  a  vision 
at  last. 

An  humble  ambition  and  hope 


The  voice  of  true  wisdom  in- 
spires ; 

'Tis   sufficient   if    peace   be   the 
scope 

And  the  summit  of  all  our  de' 
sires. 

Peace   may   be    the   lot   of   the 

mind 
That  seeks  it  in  meekness  and 

love  ; 

But  rapture  and  bliss  are  con- 
fined 
To  the  glorified  spirits  above. 


SONG. 

Am—"  The  Lass  of  Patie's  Mill: 


WHEN  all  within  is  peace, 
How  nature  seems  to  smile  ; 

f  flights  that  never  cease 
The  livelong  day  beguile. 


From  morn  to  dewy  eve, 

With  open  hand  she  showers 

Fresh  ble&sings  to  deceive 
Arid  soothe  the  silent  hours. 


MISCELLANEOUS  FOEMS. 


It  is  content  of  heart 

Gives  Nature  power  to  please  j 
The  mind  that  feels  no  smart, 

Enlivens  all  it  sees, 
Can  make  a  wintry  sky 

Seem  bright  as  smiling  May, 
And  evening's  closing  eye 

As  peep  of  early  day. 


The  vast  majestic  globe, 

So  beauteously  array'd 
In  Nature's  various  robe, 

With  wondrous  skill  display'd 
Is  to  a  mourner's  heart 

A  dreary  wild  at  best ; 
It  flutters  to  depart, 

And  longs  to  be  at  rest. 


THE  DISTRESSED  TRAVELLERS; 

OR,  LABOR  IN  VAIN. 

A  NEW  SONG  TO  A  TUNE  NEVER  SUNG  BEFORE. 

1. 

I  SING  of  a  journey  to  Clifton,* 

We  would  have  perform'd  if  we  could, 
Without  cart  or  barrow  to  lift  on 
Poor  Mary  f  and  me  through  the  mud. 
Slee  sla  slud, 
Stuck  in  the  mud. 
Oh  it  is  pretty  to  wade  through  a  flood  ! 

2. 

So  away  we  went,  slipping  and  sliding, 

Hop,  hop,  a  la  mode  de  deux  frogs, 
'Tis  near  as  good  walking  as  riding, 
When  ladies  are  dress'd  in  their  clogs. 
Wheels,  no  doubt, 
Go  briskly  about, 
But  they  clatter  and  rattle,  and  make  such  a  rout f 

3. 

SHE. 

"  Well !  now  I  protest  it  is  charming  ; 

How  finely  the  weather  improves ! 
That  cloud,  though  'tis  rather  alarming, 

How  slowly  and  stately  it  moves ! ' 

I     ..      I  I    !.—    •..—  ....--    ..  I,  .  .      I  ,  -•..•.••.II  I  -       — -      .•...  •  .11  —  .  ^       «^  _ 

*  Clifton  Reynes,  of  which  church  Lady  Austen's  brother-in-law  was  incumbent. 
t  Mrs.  Unwin. 

21 


41 8  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


HE. 


"Pshaw!  never  mind, 
'Tis  not  in  the  wind, 
We  are  travelling  south  and  shall  leave  it  behind.' 


SHE. 

"  I  am  glad  we  are  come  for  an  airing, 
For  folks  may  be  pounded  and  penn'd 

Until  they  grow  rusty,  not  caring 
To  stir  half-a-mile  to  an  end." 

HE. 

"  The  longer  we  stay, 
The  longer  we  may  ; 
It's  a  folly  to  think  about  weather  or  way." 

5. 

SHE. 

"  But  now  I  begin  to  be  frighted ; 

If  I  fall,  what  a  way  I  should  roll ! 
I  am  glad  that  the  bridge  was  indicted,— 

Stay !  stop  !  I  am  sunk  in  a  hole  I ' 

HE. 

"  Nay,  never  care  ! 
'Tis  a  common  affair  ; 
You'll  not  be  the  last  that  will  set  a  foot  there/ 

6. 

SHE. 

"  Let  me  breathe  now  a  little,  and  ponder 

On  what  it  were  better  to  do  ; 
That  terrible  lane  I  see  yonder, 

I  think  we  shall  never  get  through.' 


" 


HE. 


"  So  think  I  :— 
But,  by  the  bye, 
We  never  shall  know,  if  we  never  should  try. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  419 

7. 

SHE. 

"  But  should  we  get  there,  how  shall  we  get  home? 

What  a  terrible  deal  of  bad  road  we  have  past  I 
Slipping  arid  sliding  ;  and  if  we  should  come 
To  a  difficult  stile,  I  am  ruin'd  at  last ! 
O  this  lane : 
Now  it  is  plain 
That  struggling  and  striving  is  labor  in  vain." 

8. 

HE. 

"  Stick  fast  there  while  I  go  and  look — " 

SHE. 

'  Don't  go  away,  for  fear  I  should  fall  \ ' 

HE. 

"  I  have  examined  it  every  nook, 
And  what  you  see  here  is  a  sample  of  all. 
Coine,  wheel  round, 
The  dirt  we  have  found 
Would  be  an  estate  at  a  farthing  a  pound." 

9. 

Now,  sister  Anne,*  the  guitar  you  must  take, 

Set  it,  and  sing  it,  and  make  it  a  song  ; 
1  have  varied  the  verse  for  variety's  sake, 
And  cut  it  off  short — because  it  was  long. 
'Tis  hobbling  and  lame, 
Which  critics  wont  blame. 
For  the  sense  and  the  sound,  they  say,  should  be  the  same 


THE  HOSE. 

1783. 

THE  rose  had  been  wash'd,  just  wash'd  in  a  shower, 

Which  Mary  to  Anna  conveyed  ;f 
The  plentiful  moisture  encumber'd  the  flower 

And  weigh'd  down  its  beautiful  head. 


*  Lady  Austen. 

t  **  Mary  "  was  Mrs.  Uuwiu ;  "  Anna,"  Lady  Austen. 


420  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  cup  was  all  fill'd,  and  the  leaves  were  all  wet. 

And  it  seem'd,  to  a  fanciful  view, 
To  weep  for  the  buds  it  had  left  with  regret 

On  the  flourishing  Tbush  where  it  grew. 

I  hastily  seized  it,  unfit  as  it  was 
For  a  nosegay,  so  dripping  and  drown'd, 

And  swinging  it  rudely,  too  rudely,  alas  1 
I  snapp'd  it,  it  fell  to  the  ground. 

'  And  such,'*  I  exclaim' d,  "  is  the  pitiless  part 

Some  act  by  the  delicate  mind, 
Regardless  of  wringing  and  breaking  a  heart 

Already  to  sorrow  resign'd. 

"  This  elegant  rose,  had  I  shaken  it  less, 
Might  have  bloom' d  with  its  owner  awhile  ; 

And  the  tear  that  is  wiped  with  a  little  address, 
May  be  follow'd  perhaps  by  a  smile." 


THE  VALEDICTION.* 

FAREWELL,  false  hearts  ;  whose  best  affections  fail 
Like  shallow  brooks  which  summer  suns  exhale  ! 
Foi-getful  of  the  man  whom  once  ye  chose, 
Cold  in  his  cause,  and  careless  of  his  woes  ; 
I  bid  you  both  a  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Cold  in  my  turn,  and  unconcern'd  like  you. 

First  farewell  Niger!  f  whom,  now  duly  proved, 
I  disregard  as  much  as  I  have  loved. 
Your  brain  well  furnish'd,  and  your  tongue  well  taught 
To  press  with  energy  your  ardent  thought, 
Your  senatorial  dignity  of  face, 
Sound  sense,  intrepid  spirit,  manly  grace, 
Have  raised  you  high  as  talents  can  ascend, 
Made  you  a  peer,  but  spoilt  you  for  a  friend  ! 
Pretend  to  all  that  parts  have  e'er  acquired  ; 
Be  great,  be  fear'd,  be  envied,  be  admired  ; 
To  fame  as  lasting  as  the  earth  pretend, 
But  not  hereafter  to  the  name  of  friend  ! 
I  sent  you  verse,  and,  as  your  lordship  knows, 
Back'd  with  a  modest  sheet  of  humble  prose  ; 

*  These  lines  were  written  in  a  fit  of  indignation,  because  neither  Lord  Thurlow 
nor  Colman  had  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  his  first  volume  of  poems. 
t  "  Black  "  Lord  Thurlow. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  421 

Not  to  recall  a  promise  to  your  mind, 
Fulfiird  with  ease  had  you  been  so  inclined, 
But  to  comply  with  feelings,  and  to  give 
Proof  of  an  old  affection  still  alive. 
Your  sullen  silence  serves  at  least  to  tell 
Your  alter'd  heart :  and  so,  my  lord,  farewell ! 

Next,  busy  actor  on  a  meaner  stage,* 
Amusement-monger  of  a  trifling  age, 
Illustrious  histrionic  patentee, 
Terentius,f  once  my  friend,  farewell  to  thee! 
In  thee  some  virtuous  qualities  combine, 
To  fit  thee  for  a  nobler  part  than  thine, 
Who,  born  a  gentleman,  hast  stoop'd  too  low, 
To  live  by  buskin,  sock,  and  raree-show. 
Thy  schoolfellow,  and  partner  of  thy  plays, 
When  Nichols  \  swung  the  birch  and  twined  the  bays. 
And  having  known  thee  bearded  and  full  grown, 
The  weekly  censor  of  a  laughing  town,§ 
I  thought  the  volume  I  presumed  to  send, 
Graced  with  the  name  of  a  long-absent  friend, 
Might  prove  a  welcome  gift,  and  touch  thine  heart, 
Not  hard  by  nature,  in  a  feeling  part. 
But  thou,  it  seems  (what  cannot  grandeur  do, 
Though  but  a  dream  !)  art  grown  disdainful  too ; 
And  strutting  in  thy  school  of  queens  and  kings, 
Who  fret  their  hour  and  are  forgotten  things, 
Hast  caught  the  cold  distemper  of  the  day, 
And,  like  his  lordship,  cast  thy  friend  away. 
O  Friendship  !  cordial  of  the  human  breast  1 
So  little  felt,  so  fervently  profess'd  ! 
Thy  blossoms  deck  our  unsuspecting  years  ; 
The  promise  of  delicious  fruit  appears : 
We  hug  the  hopes  of  constancy  and  truth, 
Such  is  the  folly  of  our  dreaming  youth  ; 
But  soon,  alas!  detect  the  rash  mistake 
That  sanguine  inexperience  loves  to  make  ; 
And  view  with  tears  the  expected  harvest  lost, 
Decay 'd  by  time,  or  wither' d  by  a  frost. 
Whoever  undertakes  a  friend's  great  part 
Should  be  renew'd  in  nature,  pure  in  heart, 
Prepared  for  martyrdom,  and  strong  to  prove 
A  thousand  ways  the  force  of  genuine  love. 

*  Colman,  proprietor  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre. 

t  Alluding  to  Cplman's  translation  of  Terence. 

%  The  master  of  Westminster  school  when  Cowper  WM  there. 

§  In  the  Connoisseur. 


422  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

He  may  be  call'd  to  give  up  health  and  gain, 
To  exchange  content  for  trouble,  ease  for  pain, 
To  echo  sigh  for  sigh,  and  groan  for  groan, 
And  wet  his  cheeks  with  sorrows  not  his  own. 
The  heart  of  man,  for  such  a  task  too  frail, 
When  most  relied  on  is  most  sure  to  fail ; 
And,  summon'd  to  partake  its  fellow's  woe, 
Starts  from  its  office,  like  a  broken  bow. 

Votaries  of  business,  and  of  pleasure,  prove 
Faithless  alike  in  friendship  and  in  love. 
Retired  from  all  the  circles  of  the  gay, 
And  all  the  crowds  that  bustle  life  away, 
To  scenes  where  competition,  envy,  strife, 
Beget  no  thunder-clouds  to  trouble  life, 
Let  me,  the  charge  of  some  good  angel,  find 
One  who  has  known  and  has  escaped  mankind  ; 
Polite,  yet  virtuous,  who  has  brought  away 
The  manners,  not  the  morals,  of  the  day  : 
With  him,  perhaps  with  her  (for  men  have  known 
No  firmer  friendships  than  the  fair  have  shown), 
Let  me  enjoy,  in  some  unthought-of  spot, 
All  former  friends  forgiven  and  forgot, 
Down  to  the  close  of  life's  fast  fading  scene, 
Union  of  hearts,  without  a  flaw  between. 
'Tis  grace,  'tis  bounty,  and  it  calls  for  praise, 
If  God  give  health,  that  sunshine  of  our  days  ! 
And  if  He  add,  a  blessing  shared  by  few, 
Content  of  heart,  more  praises  still  are  due  ! 
But  if  He  grant  a  friend,  that  boon  possess'd 
Indeed  is  treasure,  and  crowns  all  the  rest ; 
And  giving  one,  whose  heart  is  in  the  skies, 
Born  from  above,  and  made  divinely  wise, 
He  gives,  what  bankrupt  Nature  never  can, 
Whose  noblest  coin  is  light  arid  brittle  man, 
Gold,  purer  far  than  Ophir  ever  knew, 
A  soul,  an  image  of  Himself,  and  therefore  true. 


TO  THE  IMMORTAL  MEMORY  OF  THE  HALIBUT, 

ON   WHICH    I  DINED   THIS   DAY,    MONDAY,  APRIL  26,  1784. 

WHERE  hast  thou  floated,  in  what  seas  pursued 
Thy  pastime  ?     When  wast  thou  an  egg  new  spawn'd, 
Lost  in  the  immensity  of  ocean's  waste  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


423 


Roar  as  they  might,  the  overbearing  winds 

That  rock'd  the  deep,  thy  cradle,  thou  wast  safe — 

And  in  thy  minikin  and  embryo  state, 

Attach'd  to  the  firm  leaf  of  some  salt  weed, 

Didst  outlive  tempests,  such  as  wrung  and  rack'd 

The  joints  of  many  a  stout  and  gallant  bark, 

And  whelm'd  them  in  the  unexplored  abyss. 

Indebted  to  no  magnet  and  no  chart, 

Nor  under  guidance  of  the  polar  fire, 

Thou  wast  a  voyager  on  many  coasts, 

Grazing  at  large  in  meadows  submarine, 

Where  flat  Batavia,  just  emerging,  peeps 

Above  the  brine, — where  Caledonia's  rocks 

Beat  back  the  surge, — and  where  Hibernia  shoots 

Her  wondrous  causeway  far  into  the  main. 

Wherever  thou  hast  fed,  thou  little  thought'st, 

And  I  not  more,  that  I  should  feed  on  thee. 

Peace,  therefore,  and  good  health,  and  much  good  fish, 

To  him  who  sent  thee  !  and  success,  as  oft 

As  it  descends  into  the  billowy  gulf, 

To  the  same  drag  that  caught  thee ! — Fare  thee  well ! 

Thy  lot  thy  brethren  of  the  slimy  fin 

Would  envy,  could  they  know  that  thou  wast  doom'd 

To  feed  a  bard,  and  to  be  praised  in  verse. 


PAIRING-TIME  ANTICIPATED. 


A    FABLE. 


I  SHALL  not  ask  Jean  Jacques 

Rousseau  * 

If  birds  confabulate  or  no  ; 
Tis  clear  that  they  were  always 

able 
To  hold   discourse,    at  least   in 

fable ; 
And  even  the  child  who  knows 

no  better 

Than  to  interpret  by  the  letter, 
A  story  of  a  cock  and  bull, 
Must   have   a  most  uncommon 

skull. 


It  chanced  then  on  a  winter's 

day,  [as  May, 

But  warm  and  bright  and  calm 
The  birds,  conceiving  a  design 
To  forestall  sweet  St.  Valentine, 
In  many  an  orchard,  copse,  and 

grove 

Assembled  on  affairs  of  love, 
Arid  with  much  twitter  and  much 

chatter 

Began  to  agitate  the  matter. 
At  length  a  Bullfinch,  who  could 

boast 


*It  was  one  of  the  whimsical  speculations  of  this  philosopher,  that  all  fables  which 
ascribe  reason  and  speech  to  animals,  should  be  withheld  from  child ren,  as  being  only 
vehicles  of  deception.  But  what  child  was  ever  deceived  by  them,  or  can  be*  agaiuit 
the  evidence  of  his  senses  ?— <C.) 


424 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


More  years  and  wisdom  than  the 

most, 
Entreated,     opening    wide    his 

beak, 

A  moment's  liberty  to  speak  ; 
And  silence  publicly  enjoin'd, 
Deliver' d  briefly  thus  his  mind  : 
"  My  friends  !  be  cautious  how 

ye  treat 

The  subject  upon  which  we  meet ; 

I  fear  we  shall  have  winter  yet."' 

A  Finch,  whose  tongue  knew 

no  control, 

With  golden  wing  and  satin  poll, 
A  last  year's  bird,  who  ne'er  had 

tried 
What  marriage  means,  thus  pert 

replied  : 
"  Methinks    the    gentleman," 

quoth  she, 

"  Opposite  in  the  apple-tree, 
By  his  good  will  would  keep  us 

single 
Till  yonder  heaven   and  earth 

shall  mingle ; 

Or  (which  is  liklier  to  befall) 
Till  death  exterminate  us  all. 
I  marry  without  more  ado  ; 
My  dear  Dick  Redcap,  what  say 

you?' 
Dick    heard,    and    tweedling, 

ogling,  bridling, 
Turning  short  round,  strutting; 

and  sideling, 

Attested,  glad,  his  approbation 
Of  an  immediate  conjugation. 
Their    sentiments    so    well    ex- 

press'd 


Influenced  mightily  the  rest ; 
All  pair'd,  and  each  pair  built  a 

nest. 
But  though  the  birds  were  thus 

in  haste, 
The  leaves  came  on  not  quite  so 

fast, 
And    destiny,    that    sometimes 

bears 

An  aspect  stern  on  man's  affairs, 
Not  altogether  smiled  on  theirs. 
The  wind,  of  late  breathed  gently 

forth, 
Now   shifted   east,  and  east  by 

north  ; 
Bare  trees  and   shrubs  but  ill, 

you  know, 
Could  shelter  them  from  rain  or 

snow : 
Stepping    into  their  nests  they 

paddled, 
Themselves    were    chill'd,   their 

eggs  were  addled  ; 
Soon     every     father    bird    and 

mother 
Grew    quarrelsome   and   peeked 

each  other, 

Parted  without  the  least  regret, 
Except  that  they  had  ever  met, 
And  learned  in  future  to  be  wiser 
Than  to  neglect  a  good  adviser. 

MORAL. 

Misses  !  the  tale  that  I  relate 
This  lesson  seems  to  carry- 
Choose    not    alone    a   propel 

mate, 
But  proper  time  to  marry. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


4*5 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 


WEAK  and  irresolute  is  man  ; 

The  purpose  of  to-day, 
Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan, 

To-morrow  rends  away. 

The  bow  well  bent  and  smart  the 

spring, 

Vice  seems  already  slain  ; 
But   passion   rudely    snaps    the 

string, 
And  it  revives  again. 

Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent 
Finds  out  his  weaker  part, 

Virtue  engages  his  assent, 
But  pleasure  wins  his  heart. 


'Tis  here  the  folly  of  the  wise 
Through  all  his  art  we  view, 

And  while  his  tongue  the  charge 

denies 
His  conscience  owns  it  true. 

Bound   on   a   voyage   of    awful 
length, 

And  dangers  little  known, 
A  stranger  to  superior  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 

But  oars  alone  can  ne'er  prevail 
To  reach  the  distant  coast, 

The  breath  of  heaven  must  swell 

the  sail 
Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. 


VERSES 


SUPPOSED  TO    BE  WRITTEN  BY  ALEXANDER    SELKIRK,  DURING  HIS 
SOLITARY  ABODE  ON  THE  ISLAND  OF  JUAN  FERNANDEZ. 

1782. 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute, 

From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  solitude  !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms, 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
"Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech, 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain, 

My  form  with  indifference  see, 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 


426  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love, 

Divinely  bestow' d  upon  man, 
Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  ! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 

In  the  ways  of  religion  arid  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Religion  !  what  treasure  untold 

Resides  in  that  heavenly  word  ! 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard, 
Ne'er  sigh'd  at  the  sound  of  a  knell, 

Or  smiled  when  a  Sabbath  appear'd. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore, 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
Oh  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  the  glance  of  the  mind ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift- winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 
But  alas  I  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair, 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place, 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought  I 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  427 


AN  EPISTLE   TO  JOSEPH   HILL.* 

DEAR  Joseph — five-and-twenty  years  ago — 
Alas,  how  time  escapes  !--'tis  even  so- 
With  frequent  intercourse,  and  always  sweet, 
And  always  friendly,  we   were  wont  to  cheat 
A  tedious  hour — and  now  we  never  meet ! 
As  some  grave  gentleman  in  Terence  savs, 
('Twas  therefore  much  the  same  in  ancient  days,) 
Good  lack,  we  know  not  what  to-morrow  brings — 
Strange  fluctuation  of  all  human  things  ! 
True.     Changes  will  befall,  and  friends  may  part, 
But  distance  only  cannot  change  the  heart : 
And,  were  I  call'd  to  prove  the  assertion  true, 
One  proof  should  serve — a  reference  to  you. 

Whence  comes  it  then,  that  in  the  wane  of  life, 
Though  nothing  have  occurr'd  to  kindle  strife, 
We  find  the  friends  we  fancied  we  had  won, 
Though  numerous  once,  reduced  to  few  or  none  ? 
Can  gold  grow  worthless  that  has  stood  the  touch  ? 
No  ;  gold  they  seem'd,  but  they  were  never  such. 

Horatio's  servant  once,  with  bow  and  cringe, 
Swinging  the  parlor  door  upon  its  hinge, 
Dreading  a  negative,  and  overawed 
Lest  he  should  trespass,  begg'd  to  go  abroad. 
"  Go,  fellow  ! — whither  ?  " — turning  short  about — 
"  Nay — stay  at  home — you're  always  going  out." 
"  'Tis  but  a  step,  sir,  just  at  the  street's  end." — 
"  For  what  ?  '    -"  An'  please  you,  sir,  to  see  a  friend." 
"  A  friend  ! '    Horatio  cried,  and  seem'd  to  start— 
"  Yea,  marry  shalt  thou,  and  with  all  my  heart. 
And  fetch  my  cloak  ;  for  though  the  night  be  raw, 
I'll  see  him  too — the  first  I  ever  saw." 

I  knew  the  man,  and  knew  his  nature  mild, 
And  was  his  plaything  often  when  a  child  ; 
But  somewhat  at  that  moment  pinch'd  him  close, 
Else  he  was  seldom  bitter  or  morose; 
Perhaps,  his  confidence  just  then  betray'd, 
His  grief  might  prompt  him  with  the  speech  he  made ; 
Perhaps  'twas  mere  good  humor  gave  it  birth, 
The  harmless  play  of  pleasantry  and  mirth. 
Howe'er  it  was,  his  language  in  my  mind, 
Bespoke  at  least  a  man  that  knew  mankind. 

*  An  early  friend  of  Cowper's,  who  introduced  him  to  Thurlow.    He  was  made  th* 
Chancellor's  Secretary 


428 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But  not  to  moralize  too  much,  and  strain 
To  prove  an  evil  of  which  all  complain, 
(I  hate  long  arguments  verbosely  spun  ;) 
One  story  more,  dear  Hill,  and  I  have  done : 
Once  on  a  time  an  emperor,  a  wise  man, 
No  matter  where,  in  China,  or  Japan, 
Decreed  that  whosoever  should  offend 
Against  the  well-known  duties  of  a  friend, 
Convicted  once,  should  ever  after  wear 
But  half  a  coat,  and  show  his  bosom  bare. 
The  punishment  importing  this,  no  doubt, 
That  all  was  naught  within,  and  all  found  out. 

Oh  happy  Britain  !  we  have  not  to  fear 
Such  hard  and  arbitrary  measures  here ; 
Else,  could  a  law  like  that  which  I  relate 
Once  have  the  sanction  of  our  triple  state, 
Some  few,  that  I  have  known  in  days  of  old, 
Would  run  most  dreadful  risk  of  catching  cold  ; 
While  you,  my  friend,  whatever  wind  should  blow 
Might  traverse  England  safely  to  and  fro, 
An  honest  man,  close-button' d  to  the  chin, 
Broad-cloth  without,  and  a  warm  heart  within. 


THE  MORALIZER  CORRECTED. 

A  TALE. 


A   HERMIT,  (or  if   'chance   you 

hold 

That  title  now  too  trite  and  old,) 
A  man  once  young,  who   lived 

retired 

As  hermit  could  have  well  de- 
sired, 

His  hours  of  study  closed  at  last, 
And  finish'd  his  concise  repast, 
Stoppled  his  cruise,  replaced  his 

book 

Within  its  customary  nook, 
And,  staff  in  hand,  set  forth  to 

share 

The  sober  cordial  of  sweet  air, 
Like  Isaac,  with  a  mind  applied 


To  serious  thought  at  evening- 
tide. 

Autumnal  rains  had  made  it 
chill, 

And  from  the  trees  that  fringed 
his  hill 

Shades  slanting  at  the   close   of 


day 


[way, 


ChilPd  more  his   else   delightful 
Distant  a  little  mile  he  spied 
A   western    bank's    still    sunny 

side, 
And  right  towards  the  favor'd 

place, 
Proceeding    with    his    nimblest 

pace, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


429 


I  n  hope  to  bask  a  little  yet, 
Just  reach'd   it   when   the  sun 

was  set. 
Your  hermit,  young  and  jovial 

sirs ! 
Learns  something  from  whate'er 

occurs ; — 
A.nd  hence,  he  said,   my   mind 

computes 

The   real    worth  of  man's   pur- 
suits, [fame, 
His    object    chosen,    wealth   or 
Or  other  sublunary  game, 
Imagination  to  his  view 
Presents    it  deck'd   with   every 

hue, 
That   can    seduce   him    not    to 

spare 

His  powers  of  best  exertion  there, 
But  youth,  health,  vigor  to  ex 

pend 

On  so  desirable  an  end. 
Ere  long  approach  life's  evening 

shades, 
The  glow    that  fancy   gave    it 

fades  ; 
And,  earn'd  too  late,  it  wants 

the  grace 
That  first  engaged  him  in  the 

chase. 


True,     answer'd    an     angelic 

guide, 

Attendant  at  the  senior's  side, — 
But  whether  all  the  time  it  cost, 
To  urge  the  fruitless  chase  be 

lost, 

Must  be  decided  by  the  worth 
Of  that  which  call'd  his  ardor 

forth. 
Trifles    pursued,    whate'er    the 

event, 

Must  cause  him  shame  or  dis- 
content ; 

A  vicious  object  still  is  worse, 
Successful  there  he  wins  a  curse; 
But  he,  whom  even  in  life's  last 

stage 

Endeavors  laudable  engag:e, 
Is  paid  at  least  in  peace  of  mind, 
And   sense   of   having   well   de- 

sign'd  ; 

And  if,  ere  he  attain  his  end, 
His  su     precipitate  descend, 
A   brighter  prize  than  that  he 

meant 
Shall      recompense     his     mere 

intent. 
No    virtuous   wish  can  bear   a 

date 
Either  too  early  or  too  late. 


ODE  TO  APOLLO. 


ON  AN   IXK-GLASS  ALMOST  DRIED  IN  THE  SUN. 

PATRON    of  all  those    luckless  /Ah,  why  since    oceans,   rivers, 

brains  [ing,  |         streams 

That,  to  the  wrong  side  lean-       That  water  all  the  nations, 
Indite  much  metre   with  much  !  Pay    tribute    to    thy    glorious 


pains, 
And  little  or  no  meaning ; 


beams, 
In  constant  exhalations; 


430 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Why,  stooping  from  the  noon  of 
day, 

Too  covetous  of  drink, 
Apollo,  hast  thou  stolen  away 

A  poet's  drop  of  ink  ? 

Upborne  into  the  viewless  air, 

It  floats  a  vapor  now, 
Impelled  through  regions  dense 
and  rare, 

By  all  the  winds  that  blow  ; 

Ordain'd    perhaps    ere   summer 

flies, 
Combin'd  with  millions  more, 


To  form  an  iris  in  the  skies, 
Though  black  and  foul  before. 

Illustrious    diop !     and    happy 
then 

Beyond  the  happiest  lot, 
Of  all  that  ever  pass'd  my  pen, 

So  soon  to  be  forgot ! 

Phoebus,  if  such  be  thy  design 
To  place  it  in  thy  bow, 

Give  wit,  that  what  is  left  may 

shine 
With  equal  grace  below. 


THE   FAITHFUL  BIRD. 


THE  greenhouse  is  my  summer 

seat ; 
My  shrubs  displaced  from  that 

retreat 

Enjoy'd  the  open  air ; 
Two  goldfinches,  whose  sprightly 

song 
Had   been  their   mutual   solace 

long. 
Lived  happy  prisoners  there. 

They  sang  as   blithe   as  finches 

sing 
That    flutter    loose    on     golden 

wing, 

And  frolic  where  they  list ; 
Strangers  to  liberty,  'tis  true, 
But    that    delight    they    never 

knew, 
And  therefore  never  miss'd. 


But 


in    every 


nature     works 
breast, 
With  force  not  easily  suppress' d; 

And  Dick  felt  some  desires, 
That,  after  many  an  effort  vain, 
Instructed  him  at  length  to  gain 
A  pass  between  his  wires. 


The  open  windows  seem'd  to  in- 
vite 

The  freeman  toafarewellflight ; 

But  Tom  was  still  confined ; 

And  Dick,  although  his  way  was 

clear,  \ 

Was  much    too    generous    and 

sincere 
To  leave  his  friend  behind. 

So  settling  on  his  cage,  by  play, 
And  chirp,  and   kiss,  he  seem'd 

to  say, 

You  must  not  live  alone ; — 
Nor  would  he  quit  that  chosen 

stand 
Till   I,  with  slow  and   cautious 

hand. 

Return'd  him  to  his  own. 

f 

Oh  ye,  who  never  taste  the  joys 
Of     friendship,     satisfied     with 

noise, 

Fandango,  ball,  and  rout ! 
Blush  when   I   tell   you   how  a 

bird 

A  prison  with  a  friend  preferred 
To  liberty  without. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


43 1 


MONUMENTAL    INSCRIPTION    TO    WILLIAM 

NORTHCOT. 


Hie  sepultus  est 
Inter  suorum  lacrymas 

GULIELMUS   NORTHCOT, 
GULIELMI  et  MARI/E  filiuS 

Uriicus,  unice  dilectus, 
Qui  floris  ritu  succisus  est 

seinihiantis, 
Aprilis  die  septimo, 
1780.     Mt.  10. 

Care,  vale  !     Sed  non  aeternum. 

care,  valeto ! 

Nainque    iterum     tecum,  sini 
modo  dignus,  ero. 


Tum     nihil    amplexus     poterit 

divellere  nostros, 
Nee  tu   niarcesces,  neo   lacry- 
mabor  ego. 

TRANSLATION. 

FAREWELL  !  "  But  not  forever," 

Hope  replies, 
Trace  but  his  steps  and  meet  him 

in  the  skies ! 
There  nothing  shall  renew  our 

parting  pain, 
Thou  shalt  not  wither,   nor  I 

weep  again. 


MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE, 

NECESSARY   TO   THE    HAPPINESS   OF  THE    MARRIED   STATE. 


THE    lady    thus    address'd  her 

spouse — 
"  What  a  mere  dungeon  is  this 

house  ! 
By  no  means  large  enough  ;  and 

was  it, 
Yet  this  dull    room,   and    that 

dark  closet, 

Those  hangings  with  their  worn- 
out  graces, 
Long    beards,    long   noses,  and 

pale  faces, 

Are  such  an  antiquated  scene, 
They  overwhelm   me   with   the 

spleen." 
Sir  Humphrey,  shooting  in  the 

dark, 
Makes  answer  quite  beside  the 

mark  : 


"  No  doubt,  my  dear,  I  bade  him 

come, 

Engaged  myself  to  be  at  home, 
And    shall   expect  him  at  the 

door 
Precisely  when  the  clock  strikes 

four." 
"  You  are  so  deaf,"   the  lady 

cried, 
(And     raised    her    voice,     and 

frown'd  beside,) 
"  You   are    so    sadly    deaf,   my 

dear, 
What  shall  I   do   to   make   you 

hear?' 
"Dismiss    poor    Harry  1 "   he 

replies  ; 
"  Some  people  are    more    nice 

than  wise 


432 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


For  one  slight  trespass   all  this 

stir? 
What  if  he  did  ride  whip   and 

spur, 
'Twas  but  a  mile — your  favorite 

horse 
Will    never  look  one   hair  the 

worse." 
"  Well,  I  protest  'tis  past  all 

bearing — " 
"  Child  !    I  am   rather  hard   of 

hearing." 
"  Yes,  truly — one  must  scream 

and  bawl : 
I  tell  you,   you   can't  hear  at 

all !  "  [low, 

Then,    with   a   voice    exceeding 
No  matter  if  you  hear  or  no." 
Alas  !  and  is  domestic  strife, 
That  sorest  ill  of  human  life, 
A  plague  so  little  to  be  fear'd, 
As  to  be  wantonly  incurr'd, 
To  gratify  a  fretful  passion, 
On  every  trivial  provocation  ? 
The   kindest  and   the  happiest 

pair 

Will  find  occasion  to  forbear ; 
And  something  every  day  they 

live 

To  pity  and  perhaps  forgive. 
But  if  infirmities,  that  fall 


In  common  to  the  lot  of  all, 

A  blemish  or  a  sense  impair'd, 

Are  crimes  so  little  to  be  sparedt 

Then  farewell    all    that    must 
create 

The  comfort  of  the  wedded  state; 

Instead  of  harmony,  'tis  jar, 

And  tumult,  and  intestine  war. 
The    love    that    cheers    life's 
latest  stage, 

Proof  against  sickness  and  old 
age, 

Preserved    by    virtue  from  de- 
clension, 

Becomes  not  weary  of  attention; 

But    lives,   when   that  exterior 
grace, 

Which  first  inspired   the  flame, 
decays. 

'Tis  gentle,  delicate,  and  kind, 

To     faults     compassionate    or 
blind, 

And  will  with  sympathy  endure 

Those  evils  it  would  gladly  cure; 

But    angry,  coarse,  and    harsh 
expression 

Shows  love  to   be   a   mere   pro- 
fession ; 

Proves  that  the  heart  is  none  of 
his, 

Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is. 


BOADICEA. 


AN  ODE. 


WHEN     the      British     warrior 

Queen,  [rods, 

Bleeding    from     the    Roman 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 

Counsels    of     her     country's 

gods, 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak, 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief  ; 


Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage,  and  full  of  grief. 

"  Princess !  if  our  aged  eyes 
Weep     upon    thy    matchless 
wrongs, 

'Tis  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


433 


"  Rome  shall  perish — write  that 

word 
In   the  blood   that    she    has 

spilt ; 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorr'd, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

' '  Rome,     for     empire     far     re- 

nown'd, 
Tramples     on      a     thousand 

states  ; 
Soon   her    pride    shall   kiss  the 

ground — 

Hark !     the    Gaul    is    at    her 
gates  ! 

"  Other  Romans  shall  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name  ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the 

prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

"  Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 


Arm'd   with  thunder,  clad  with 

wings, 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

"  Regions  Caesar  never  knew 
Thy  posterity  shall  sway ; 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 
None  invincible  as  they." 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride,, 
Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow  : 

Rush'd    to    battle,  fought,  and 

died  ; 
Dying,  huiTd  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance 
due  ; 

Empire  is  on  us  bestow'd, 
Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 


TO  THE  REV.  W.  CAWTIIORNE  UNWIN. 


UNWIN,  I  should  but  ill  repay 

The  kindness  of  a  friend, 
Whose  worth  deserves  as  warm 

a  lay, 

As  ever  friendship  penn'd, 
Thy  name  omitted  in  a  page, 
That    would   reclaim   a  vicious 
age. 

A  union   form'd   as   mine  with 

thee, 

Not  rashly,  or  in  sport, 
May  be  as  fervent  in  degree 

And  faithful  in  its  sort, 
And   may   as    rich    in    comfort 

prove, 
As  that  of  true  fraternal  love. 

The  bud  inserted  in  the  rind, 
The  bud  of  peach  or  rose, 


Adorns,  though  differing  in   its 
kind, 

The  stock  whereon  it  grows, 
With  flower  as  sweet,  or  fruit  as 

fair, 

As  if  produced  by  nature  there. 
Not  rich,  I  render  what  I  may, 

I  seize  thy  name  in  haste, 
And  place  it  in  this  first  essay, 

Lest  this  should  prove  the  last. 

'Tis  where   it  should   be — in   a 

plan,  [man. 

That  holds  in  view  the  good  of 

The  poet's  lyre,  to  fix  his  fame, 

Should  be  the  poet's  heart ; 
Affection  lights  a  brighter  flame 

Than  ever  blazed  by  art. 
No  muses  on  these  lines  attend, 
I  sink  the  poet  in  the  friend. 


434 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO  THE  REVEREND  MR.  NEWTON. 

Atf   INVITATION  INTO  THE   COUNTRY. 


THE  swallows  in    their    torpid 
state 

Compose  their  useless  wing, 
And  bees  in  hives  as  idly  wait 

The  call  of  early  Spring. 

The  keenest  frost  that  binds  the 

stream, 

The  wildest  wind  that  blows, 
Are   neither   felt   nor   fear'd  by 

them, 
Secure  of  their  repose. 

Bat  man  all  feeling  and  awake, 
The  gloomy  scene  surveys, 

With  present  ills  his  heart  must 

ache, 
And  pant  for  brighter  days. 


Old  Winter,  halting  o'er  the  mead 
Bids  nie  arid  Mary  mourn  ; 

But  lovely  Spring  peeps  o'er  his 

head, 
And  whispers  your  return. 

The  April  with  her  sister  May 
Shall    chase    him    from     the 

bowers, 
And  weave  fresh  garlands  every 

day, 
To  crown  the  smiling  hours. 

And  if  a  tear  that  speaks  regret 
Of  happier  times  appear, 

A  glimpse  of  joy  that  we  have 

met 
Shall  shine,  and  dry  the  tear. 


THE  LILY  AND  THE  ROSE. 


THE  nymph  must  lose  her  female 

friend 

If  more  admired  than  she— 
But  where  will  fierce  contention 

end, 
If  flowers  can  disagree? 

Within    the    garden's    peaceful 
scene 

Appear' d  two  lovely  foes, 
Aspiring  to  the  rank  of  queen, 

The  Lily  and  the  Rose. 

The  Rose  soon  redden' d  into  rage, 
And  swelling  with  disdain, 

Appeal'd  to  many  a  poet's  page 
To  prove  her  right  to  reign. 

The  Lily's  height  bespoke  com- 
mand, 
A  *air  imperial  flower, 


She  seem'd  design'd  for  Flora's 

hand, 
The  sceptre  of  her  power. 

This  civil  bickering  and  debate 
The  goddess  chanced  to  hear, 

And  flew  to   save,  ere   yet   toe 

late, 
The  pride  of  the  parterre. 

"  Yours  is,"  she  said,  * '  the  nobler 
hue, 

And  yours  the  statelier  mien, 
And,  till  a  third  surpasses  you, 

Let  each  be  deem'd  &  queen." 

Thus    soothed    and    reconciled 
each  seeks 

The  fairest  British  fair, 
The  seat  of  empire  is  her  cheeks, 

They  reign  united  there. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  435 

IDEM  LATINE  REDDITUM. 

HET  inimicitias  quoties  parit  aemula  forma, 
Quam  raro  pulchne  pulchra  placere  potestl 

Sed  fines  ultra  solitos  discordia  tendit, 
(Juni  ilores  ipsos  bills  et  ira  movent. 

Hortus  ubi  dulces  prsebet  tacitosque  recessus, 

Se  rapit  in  partes  gens  animosa  duas, 
Hi«  sibi  regales  Amaryllis  Candida  cultiis, 

Illic  purpureo  vindicat  ore  Rosa. 

Ira  Rosam  et  meritis  qusesita  superbia  tangunt, 

Multaque  ferventi  vix  cohibenda  sinu, 
Duni  sibi  fautorum  ciet  uridique  riomina  vatuin, 

J  usque  suum,  multo  carmine  fulta,  pro  bat. 

Altior  emicat  ilia,  et  celso  vertice  nutat, 

Ceu  flores  inter  non  habitura  parem, 
Fastiditque  alios,  et  nata  videtur  in  usus 

Imperil,  sceptrum,  Flora  quod  ipsa  gerat. 

Nee  Dea  non  sensit  civilis  murmura  rix», 

Cui  curse  est  pictas  pandere  ruris  opes. 
Deliciasque  suas  nunquam  non  prompta  tueri, 

Dum  licet  et  locus  est,  ut  tueatur,  adest. 

"Et  tibi  forma  datur  procerior  omnibus,"  inquit 
"  Et  tibi,  principibus  qui  solet  esse,  color, 

Et  donee  vincat  qusedam  formosior  ambas, 
Et  tibi  reginae  nomen,  et  esto  tibi." 

His  ubi  sedatus  furor  est,  petit  utraque  nympham 

Qualem  inter  Veneres  Anglia  sola  parit ; 
Hanc  penes  imperium  est,  nihil  optant  amplius,  hujus 

Regnant  in  nitidis,  et  sine  lite,  genis. 


THE  WINTER  NOSEGAY. 


WHAT    Nature,   alas!    has  de- 
nied 
To  the  delicate  growth  of  our 

isle, 

Art  has  in  a  measure  supplied, 
And  winter  is  deck'd  with  a 
smile. 


See,  Mary,  what  beauties  I  bring 
From  the  shelter  of  that  sunny 

shed, 
Where    the    flowers    have    the 

charms  of  the  spring, 
Though  abroad  they  are  fro- 
zen and  dead. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


'Tis  a  bower  of  Arcadian  sweets, 
Where   Flora  is    still    in    her 

prime ; 

A  fortress  to  which  she  retreats, 
From  the  cruel  assaults  of  the 

clime. 
While  earth  wears  a  mantle  of 

snow, 
These  pinks  are  as  fresh  and 

as  gay 
As  the  fairest  and  sweetest  that 

blow 

On    the    beautiful    bosom    of 
May. 


See  how   they  have  safely  sur- 
vived 

The  frowns  of  a  sky  so  severe ! 
Such  Mary's  true  love  that  has 

lived 
Through    many    a   turbulent 

year. 

The  charms  of  the  late-blowing 

rose,  [hue, 

Seem'd  graced  with  a  livelier 

And  the  winter   of  sorrow  best 

shows 

The  truth  of  a  friend  such  as 
you. 


THE  POET,  THE  OYSTER,  AND   SENSITIVE  PLANT. 

Was  hurt,  disgusted,  mortified, 
And  with  asperity  replied. 

"When,"    cry    the    botanists, 

and  stare, 
'Did     plants     call'd    Sensitive 

grow  there  ?  '  [is 

No  matter  when — a  poet's  muse 
To  make  them  grow  just  where 

she  chooses. 
''You  shapeless  nothing  in  a 

dish, 

You  that  are  but  almost  a  fish, 
I  scorn  your  coarse  insinuation, 
And  have   most    plentiful  occa- 
sion 

To  wish  myself  the  rock  I  view, 
Or  such  another  dolt  as  you. 
For  many  a  grave  and  learned 

clerk, 

Arid  many  a  gay  unletter'd  spark, 
With  curious  touch  examines  me, 
If  I  can  feel  as  well  as  he ; 
And  when   I   bend,  retire,  and 

shrink, 
Says,  "  Well — 'tis  more  than  one 

would  think." 


Oyster  cast  upon  the  shore 
Was  heard,  though  never  heard 

before, 
Complaining  in   a  speech  well 

worded, 

And  worthy  thus  to  be  record- 
ed : — 
11  Ah,  hapless  wretch  con- 

deirm'd  to  dwell 
Forever  in  my  native  shell, 
Ordain'd  to   move   when  others 

please, 

Not  for  my  own  content  or  ease, 
But  toss'd  and  buffeted  about, 
Now  in  the  water,  and  now  out. 
'Twere  better  to  be  born  a  stone 
Of  ruder  shape  and  feeling  none. 
Than  with  a  tenderness  like 

mine, 

And  sensibilities  so  fine  !   f 
I  envy  that  unfeeling  shrub, 
Fast  rooted  against  every  rub." 
The  plant  he  meant  grew  not  far 

off, 
And  felt  the  sneer  with  scorn 

enough, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


437 


Thus  life  is  spent !  oh  fie  upon't, 
In  being  touch'd,  and  crying — 

"Don't!  ' 

A  poet,  in  his  evening  walk, 
O'erheard  arid  check 'd  this  idle 

talk. 
"  And  your  fine  sense,"  he  said, 

"and  yours, 

Whatever  evil  it  endures, 
Deserves  not,  if  so  soon  offended, 
Much  to  be  piti  i  I  or  commended. 
Disputes,  though  short,  are  far 

too  long,  [wrong ; 

Where   both   alike    are    in    the 

Your  feelings  i.n  their  full  amount 

Are  all  upon  your  own  account. 

"You,    in    your    grotto-work 

enclosed 

Complain  of  being  thus  exposed, 
Yet  nothing  feel  in  that  rough 

coat,  [throat. 

Save  when  the  knife  is  at  your 
Wherever  driven  by  wind  or  tide, 


Exempt  from  every  ill  beside. 
"And   as  for  you,  my    Lady 

Squeamish, 

Who  reckon  every  touch  a  blem- 
ish, 
If  all   the   plants   that  can   be 

found 

Embellishing  the  scene  around, 
Should  droop  arid  wither  where 

they  grow, 
You  would  not  feel  at  all,  not 

you. 
The  noblest  minds  their  virtue 

prove 

By  pity,  sympathy,  and  love  : 
These,    these  are  feelings  truly 

fine, 
And     prove     their    owner  half 

divine." 
His  censure  reach'd  them  as  he 

dealt  it, 
And  each  by  shrinking  show'd 

he  felt  it. 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  JOHNSON. 


HERE  Johnson  lies,  a  sage  by  all 

allow'd, 
Whom  to  have  bred,  may  well 

make  England  proud  ; 
Whose   purpose  was  eloquence, 

by  Wisdom  taught, 
The  graceful  vehicle  of  virtuous 

thought ; 
Whose  verse  may  claim,  grave, 

masculine,  and  strong, 


Superior  praise  to  the  mere  poet's 

song ; 
Who   many   a   noble  gift  from 

heaven  possess' d, 
And  faith  at  last,  alone  worth 

all  the  rest. 
O  man,  immortal  by  a  double 

prize, 
By  fame  on  earth,   by  glory  IP 

the  skies ! 


438 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ON  THE  AUTHOR  *  OF  LETTERS  ON  LITERATURE. 

1785. 


THE  Genius  of  the  Augustan  age 
His  head  among  Rome's  ruins 
rear'd, 

And  bursting  with  heroic  rage, 
When  literary  Heron  appear' d. 

"Thou  hast,"    he   cried,    "like 

him  of  old, 

Who  set  the  Ephesian  dome  on 
fire, 


By  being  scandalously  bold, 
Attain'd  the  mark  of  thy  de- 
sire. 

"And  for  traducing  Virgil's  name 
Shalt    share  his    merited    re- 
ward; 

A  perpetuity  of  fame, 
That  rots,  and  stinks,  and  is 
abhorr'd." 


THE  SHRUBBERY. 

WRITTEN  IN  A  TIME  OF  AFFLICTION. 


OH  happy  shades  !  to  me  unblest, 
Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to 

me, 
How    ill   the  scene    that  offers 

rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest, 
agree ! 

This  glassy  stream,  that  spread- 
ing pine, 
Those  alders  quivering  to  the 

breeze, 
Might  soothe   a  soul   less  hurt 

than  mine, 

And  please,  if  anything  could 
please. 

But  fix'd,  unalterable  Care, 
Foregoes   not  what  she  feels 

within, 

Shows  the  same  sadness  every- 
where, 

And  slights  the  season  and  the 
scene. 


For  all  that  pleased  in  wood  or 

lawn, 
While  peace  possessed  these 

silent  bowers, 

Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 
Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its 
powers. 

The    saint   or    moralist    should 

tread 
This  moss-grown  alley,  musing 

slow  ; 
They  seek    like    me  the  secret 

shade, 

But  not  like  me,  to   nourish 
woe. 

Me  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects 

waste, 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam  ; 
These    tell    me    of    enjoyments 

past, 

And  those  of  sorrows   yet   to 
come. 


*  John  Pinkerton,  Heron  was  his  nom  deplume.  Cowper  was  very  indignant  at  the 
publication  ot  these  letters. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  439 


THE  POPLAR  FIELD. 

THE  poplars  are  fell'd  ;  farewell  to  the  shade, 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade  ! 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  first  took  a  view 
Of  my  favorite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once  lent  me  a  shade ! 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat, 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat, 
And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charmed  me  before 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 

And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 

With  a  turf  on  my  breast,  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 

Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 

'Tis  a  sight  to  engage  me,  if  anything  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man  ; 
Though  his  life  be  a  dream,  his  enjoyments,  I  see, 
Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than  he. 


TO  MISS  CREUZE,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 


How    many   between   east   arid 

west 

Disgrace  their  parent  earth, 
Whose    deeds    constrain    us   to 

detest 
The  day  that  gave  them  birth  ! 


Not  so  when  Stella's  natal  morn 
Revolving  months  restore, 

We   can   rejoice   that    she    was 

born, 
And  wish  her  born  once  more  ! 


GRATITUDE. 

ADDRESSED  TO  LADY  HESKETH. 


THIS    cap    that  so  stately   ap- 
pears, 

With  ribbon-bound  tassel  on 
high, 


Which  seems  by  the  crest  that  it 


rears 


Ambitious  of  brushing  the  sky: 
This  cap  to  my  cousin  I  owe, 


440 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


She  gave  it,  and  gave  me  be- 
side, 

Wreathed  into  an  elegant  bow, 
The  ribbon  with  which  it  is 
tied. 

This  wheel-footed  studying  chair, 
Contrived   both  for  toil   and 

repose, 
Wide-el'bow'd,  and  wadded  with 

hair, 
In  which  I  both  scribble   and 

dose, 
Bright-studded     to    dazzle    the 

eyes, 

And  rival  in  lustre  of  that 
In  which,  or  astronomy  lies, 
Fair  Cassiopeia  sat ! 

These  carpets  so  soft  to  the  foot, 

Caledonia's  traffic  and  pride, 
Oh  spare  them,  ye  knights  of  the 

boot, 

Escaped  from  the  cross-coun- 
try ride  ! 
This  table  and  mirror  within, 

Secure  from  collision  and  dust, 
At  which  I  oft  shave  cheek  and 

chin, 
And  periwig  nicely  adjust : 

This      movable      structure      of 

shelves,  [use, 

For  its  beauty  admired  and  its 

And  charged  with  octavos  and 

twelves, 

The  gayest  I  had  to  produce  ; 
Where,  flaming  in   scarlet  and 

gold, 

My  poems  enchanted  I  view, 
And   hope,  in  due  time,  to  be- 
hold 
My  Iliad  and  Odyssey  too  : 


This  china,   that  decks  the   al. 

cove, 
Which  here  people  call  a  buf 

fet, 

But  what  the  gods  call  it  above, 
Has  ne'er  been  revealed  to  us 

yet: 
These    curtains  that  keep    the 

room  warm 

Or    cool,    as    the    season    de- 
mands, 
Those  stoves  that  for  pattern  and 

form 

Seem  the  labor  of  Mulciber's 
hands : 

All  these  are  not  half  that  I  owe 
To     One,    from    our    earliest 

youth 
To  me  ever  ready  to  shew 

Benignity,     friendship,     and 

truth  ; 

For  time,  the  destroyer  declared 
And  foe  of  our  perishing  kind, 
If  even  her  face  he  has  spared, 
Much  less  could  he  alter  her 
mind. 

Thus  compass' d  about  with  the 

goods 
And   chattels   of  leisure   and 

ease, 
I  indulge  my  poetical  moods 

In  many  such  fancies  as  these  ; 
And    fancies    I   fear    they    will 

seem — 
Poet's  goods  are  not  often  so 

fine  ; 
The    poets    will    swear  that    I 

dream, 

When!  sing  of  the  splendor 
of  mine. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


441 


STANZAS 


SUBJOINED   TO   THE   YEARLY  BILL  OF  MORTALITY  OF  THE   PARISH 
OF   ALL-SAINTS,  NORTHAMPTON,  ANNO   DOMINI  1787.* 

Pallida  Mors  jequo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernas, 

Kegumque  turres.  HORACE. 

Pale  Death  with  equal  foot  strikes  wide  the  door 
Of  royal  halls  and  hovels  of  the  poor. 


WHILE     thirteen     moons    saw 

smoothly  run 

The  Nen's  barge-laden  wave, 
All  these,   life's   rambling  jour- 
ney done, 

Have   found  their   home,  the 
grave. 

Was   man   (frail   always)   made 

more  frail 

Than  in  foregoing  years  ? 
Did  famine  or  did   plague  pre- 
vail, 
That  so  much  death  appears  ? 

No ;  these  were  vigorous  as  their 

sires, 

Nor  plague  nor  famine  came  ; 
This   annual  tribute   Death  re- 
quires, 
And  never  waives  his  claim. 


Like    crowded    forest-trees     wt 

stand, 

And  some  are  mark'd  to  fall  ; 
The  axe  will  smite  at  God's  com- 
mand, 
And  soon  shall  smite  us  all. 


Green    as    the    bay    tree,    ever 

green, 

With  its  new  foliage  on, 
The  gay,  the  thoughtless,  have  I 

seen, 
I  pass'd, — and  they  were  gone. 


Read,  ye  that  run,  the  awful 
truth 

With  which  I  charge  my  page! 
A  worm  is  in  the  bud  of  youth, 

And  at  the  root  of  age. 


*  In  the  following  extract,  from  a  letter  of  the  poet'e  to  Lady  Hesketh,  Cowper  ex- 
plains how  he  came  to  write  on  such  a  subject.  "On  Monday  morning  last,  Sam  brought 
me  word  that  there  was  a  man  in  the  kitchen  who  desired  to  speak  with  me.  1  ordered 
him  in.  A  plain,  decent,  elderly  figure  made  its  appearance,  and,  being  desired  to  sit, 
spoke  as  follows  :  '  Sir,  I  am  clerk  of  the  parish  of  All-Saints,  in  Northampton  ;  brother 
of  Mr.  C.  [Cox]  the  upholsterer.  It  is  customary  for  the  person  in  my  office  to  annex 
to  a  bill  of  mortality,  which  he  publishes  at  Christmas,  a  copy  of  verses.  You  will  do 
me  a  great  favor,  sir,  if  you  will  furnish  me  with  one.'  To  this  I  replied,  '  Mr.  C.,  yon 
have  several  men  of  genius  in  your  town,  why  have  you  not  applied  to  some  of  them  ? 

There  is  a  namesake   of   yours  in  particular,  C ,  the  statuary,  who.  everybody 

knows,  is  a  first-rate  maker  of  verses.  He  surely  is  the  man  of  all  the  world  for  your 
purpose.'  'Alas  !  sir,  I  have  heretofore  borrowed  help  of  him,  but  he  is  a  gentleman 
of  so  much  reading  that  the  people  of  our  town  cannot  understand  him.'  I  confess  to 
yon.  my  dear,  I  felt  all  the  force  of  the  compliment  implied  in  this  speech,  and  was 
almost  ready  to  answer,  '  Perhaps,  my  good  friend,  they  may  find  me  unintelligible  too 
for  the  same  reason.'  But,  on  asking  him  whether  he  had  walked  over  to  Weston  on 
purpose  to  implore  the  assistance  of  my  muse,  and  on  his  replying  in  the  affirmative,  I 
felt  my  mortified  vanity  a  little  consoled,  and,  pitying  the  poor  man's  distress,  which 
appeared  to  be  considerable,  promised  to  supply  him.  The  wagon  has  accordingly  gone 
this  day  to  Northampton  loaded  in  part  with  my  effusions  in  the  mortuary  style.  A  fig 
for  poets  who  write  epitaphs  on  individuals  !  1  have  written  one  that  serves  two  hun- 
dred persons." 


442 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


No  present  health  can  health 

insure 

For  yet  an  hour  to  come  ; 
No  medicine,  though  it  oft  can 

cure, 
Can  always  balk  the  tomb. 

And  oh  !  that  humble  as  my  lot, 
And  scorn'd  as  is  my  strain, 


These  truths,  though  known,  too 

much  forgot, 
I  may  not  teach  in  vain. 

So  prays  your  Clerk  with  all  his 

heart, 

And  ere  he  quits  the  pen, 
Begs  you  for  once   to  take    his 

part, 
And  answer  all — Amen ! 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1788. 

Quod  adest,  memento 
Componere  sequus.  Csetera  fluminis 
Hit,  feruntur.  HORACE. 

Improve  the  present  hour,  for  all  beside 
Is  a  mere  feather  on  a  torrent's  tide. 

COULD  I,  from  Heaven  inspired,  as  sure  presage 
To  whom  the  rising  year  shall  prove  his  last, 

As  I  can  number  in  my  punctual  page. 
And  item  down  the  victims  of  the  past ; 

How  each  would  trembling  wait  the  mournful  sheet 
On  which  the  press  might  stamp  him  next  to  die  ; 

And,  reading  here  his  sentence,  how  replete 

With  anxious  meaning,  heavenward  turn  his  eye ! 

Time  then  would  seem  more  precious  than  the  joys 
In  which  he  sports  away  the  treasure  now  ; 

And  prayer  more  seasonable  than  the  noise 
Of  drunkards,  or  the  music-drawing  bow. 

Then  doubtless  many  a  trifler  on  the  brink 
Of  this  world's  hazardous  and  headlong  shore, 

Forced  to  pause,  would  feel  it  good  to  think, 
Told  that  his  setting  sun  must  rise  no  more. 

Ah  self-deceived  !  Could  I  prophetic  say 
Who  next  is  fated,  and  who  next  to  fall, 

The  rest  might  then  seem  privileged  to  play  ; 
But,  naming  none,  the  Voice  now  speaks  to  all. 

Observe  the  dappled  foresters,  how  light 
They  bound  and  airy  o'er  the  sunny  glade  : 

One  falls — the  rest,  wide  scatter'd  with  affright, 
Vanish  at  once  into  the  darkest-shade. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


443 


Had  we  their  wisdom,  should  we,  often  warn'd, 
Still  need  repeated  warnings,  and  at  last, 

A  thousand  awful  admonitions  scorn'd, 
Die  self-accused  of  life  run  all  to  waste  ? 

Sad  waste  !  for  which  no  after-thrift  atones  ! 

The  grave  admits  no  cure  for  guilt  or  sin  ; 
Dewdrops  may  deck  the  turf  that  hides  the  bones, 

But  tears  of  godly  grief  ne'er  flow  within. 

Learn  then,  ye  living!  by  the  mouths  be  taughj 
Of  all  those  sepulchres,  instructors  true, 

Tliat,  soon  or  late,-  death  also  is  your  lot, 
And  the  next  opening  grave  may  yawn  for  you. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR   THE   TEAR    1789. 

-Placidi  que  ibidemum  morte  qinevit. 
There  calm  at  length  he  breathed  his  sou!  away. 


VIBO. 


'  O  MOST  delightful  hour  by  man 
Experienced  here  below,  [span, 
The   hour   that    terminates    his 
His  folly  and  his  woe  ! 

"  Worlds  should  not  bribe  me 
back  to  tread 

Again  life's  dreary  waste, 
To  see  again  my  day  o'erspread 

With  all  the  gloomy  past. 

"  My  home  henceforth  is  in  the 
skies, 

Earth,  seas,  and  sun,  adieu! 
All  heaven  unfolded  to  my  eyes, 

I  have  no  sight  for  you." 

So  spake  Aspasio,  firm  possess'd 
Of  faith's  supporting  rod, 

Then  breathed  his  soul  into  its 

rest, 
The  bosom  of  his  God. 

He  was  a  man  among  the  few 
Sincere  on  Virtue1  &  side ; 

Arid  all  his  strength  irom  Scrip- 
ture drew, 
To  hourly  use  applied. 


That  rule  he  prized,  by  that  he 

fear'd, 

He  hatt'd.  hoped,  and  loved; 
Nor  ever  frown'd,    or   sad   ap- 
pear'd, 
But  when  his  heart  had  roved. 

For  he  was  frail  as  thou  or  I, 

And  evil  felt  within  ; 
But  when  he  felt  it,  heaved  a 
sigh, 

And  loath'd  the  thought  of  sin. 

Such  lived  Aspasio ;  and  at  last 
Call'd  up  from  earth  to  heaven, 

The  gulf  of  death  triumphant 

pass'd, 
By  gales  of  blessing  driven. 

"  His  joys  be  mine,"  each  reader 

cries, 

"  When  my  last  hour  arrives;" 
"  They    shall    be    yours,"    my 

verse  replies, 

Such  only  be  your  lives." 


. . 


444 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR   THE   YEAR   1790. 

Ne  commonentem  recta  sperne.— BUCHANAN. 
Despise  not  my  good  counsel. 


HE  who  sits  from  day  to  day 
Where    the   prison'd    lark    is 

hung, 

Heedless  of  his  loudest  lay, 
Hardly  knows    that    he    has 
sung. 

Where  the  watchman  in  his 
round 

Nightly  lifts  his  voice  on  high, 
None  accustoni'd  to  the  sound, 

Wakes  the  sooner  for  his  cry. 

So  your  verse-man  I,  and  Clerk, 
Yearly  in  my  song  proclaim 

Death   at  hand — yourselves  his 

mark- 
Arid  the  foe's  unerring  aim. 

Duly  at  my  time  I  come, 
Publishing  to  all  aloud, — 

Soon  the    grave   must   be  your 

home, 
And  your  only  suit  a  shroud. 


But  the  monitory  strain, 
Oft  repeated  in  your  ears, 

Seems  to  sound  too  much  in  vain, 
Wins  no  notice,  wakes  no  fears. 

Can  a  truth,  by  all  confess'd 
Of  such  magnitude  and  weight, 

Grow,  by  being  oft  i m press' d, 
Trivial  as  a  parrot's  prate  ? 

Pleasure's  call  attention  wins, 
Hear  it  often  as  we  may  ; 

New  as  ever  seem  our  sins, 
Though  committed  every  day. 

Death  and  judgment,heaven  and 
hell— 

These  alone,  so  often  heard, 
No  more  move  us  than  the  bell 

When  some  stranger  is  interr'd. 

Oh  then ,  ere  the  turf  or  tomb 
Cover  us  from  every  eye, 

Spirit  of  instruction  !  come, 
Make  us  learn  that  we  must 
die. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR   THE   YEAR   1792. 

Felix,  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causas, 

Atque  metus  omnes  et  inexorabile  fatum 

Subjecit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Acherontis  avari ! — VIBG. 

Happy  the  mortal  who  has  traced  effects 

To  their  first  cause,  cast  fear  beneath  his  feet. 

And  Death  and  roaring  Hell's  voracious  fires  ! 


THANKLESS  for  favors  from  on 
high, 

Man 'thinks  he  fades  too  soon; 
Though  'tis  his  privilege  to  die, 

Would  he  improve  the  boon. 


But  he,  not  wise  enough  to  scan 

His  best  concerns  aright, 
Would  gladly  stretch  life's  little 

span 
To  ages,  if  he  might ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


445 


To  ages  in  a  world  of  pain, 
To  ages,  where  he  goes 

GalFd  by  affliction's  heavy  chain, 
And  hopeless  of  repose. 

Strange  fondness  of  the  human 

heart, 

Enamour' d  of  its  harm  1 
Strange  world,  that  costs  it  so 

much  smart, 
Arid  still  has  power  to  charm. 

Whence  has  the  world  her  magic 

power  ? 

Why  deem  we  Death  a  foe  ? 
Recoil    from    weary    life's    best 

hour, 
And  covet  longer  woe  ? 

The  cause  is  Conscience — Con- 
science oft 
Her  tale  of  guilt  renews  ; 


Her  voice  is  terrible  though  soft, 
And  dread  of  Death  ensues. 

Then     anxious     to     be    longer 

spared 

Man  mourns  his  fleeting  breath: 
All  evils  then  seem  light,  com- 
pared 
With  the  approach  of  Death. 

'Tis  judgment  shakos  him  ; 
there's  the  fear 

That  prompts  the  wish  to  stay: 
He  has  incurr'd  a  long  arrear, 

And  must  despair  to  pay. 

Pay  I — follow  Christ,  and  all  is 

paid  : 

His  death  your  peace  ensures  ; 
Think  on  the  grave  where  he  was 

laid, 
And  calm  descend  to  yours. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

FOR   THE   YEAR   1793. 

De  saoris  autem  haec  sit  una  sententia,  ut  conserventur.    Cic.,   De  Leg. 
But  let  us  all  concur  in  this  one  sentiment,  that  things  sacn-il  be  inviolate. 


HE  lives  who  lives  to  God  alone, 
And  all  are  dead  beside  ; 

For  other  source   than   God    is 

none 
Whence  life  can  be  supplied. 

To  live  to  God  is  to  requite 
His  love  as  best  we  may ; 

To   make  his   precepts   our  de- 
light, 
His  promises  our  stay. 

But  life,  within  a  narrow  ring 
Of  giddy  joys  comprised, 

Is  falsely  named,  and   no  such 

thing, 
But  rather  death  disguised. 


Can  life   in    them    deserve   the 

name, 

Who  only  live  to  prove 
For  what  poor   toys    they   can 

disclaim 
An  endless  life  above  ? 

Who,  much  diseased,  yet  noth- 
ing feel ; 

Much  menaced,  nothing  dread; 
Have  wounds  which  only  God 

can  heal, 
Yet  never  ask  His  aid  ? 

Who   deem  His  house  a  useless 

place, 
Faith,  want  of  common  sense; 


446 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And     ardor    in    the     Christian 

race, 
A  hypocrite's  pretence  ? 

Who  trample  order ;  and    the 
day 

Which  God  asserts  his  own 
Dishonor  with  unhallow'd  play, 

And  worship  chance  alone  ? 

If  scorn  of  God's  commands,  im- 
press'd 
On  word  and  deed,  imply 


The  better  part  of  man  unbless'd 
With  life  that  cannot  die  ; 

Such   want  it,   and  that  want, 
uncured 

Till  man  resigns  his  breath, 
Speaks  him  a  criminal,  assured 

Of  everlasting  death. 

Sad  period  to  a  pleasant  course  1 

Yet  so  will  God  repay 
Sabbaths   profaned  without  re 
morse, 

And  mercy  cast  away. 


LINES   COMPOSED  FOR  A  MEMORIAL  OF 
ASHLEY  COWPER,  ESQ., 

IMMEDIATELY   AFTER   HIS   DEATH.*      1788. 

FAREWELL  !  endued  with  all  that  could  engage 
All  hearts  to  love  thee,  both  in  youth  and  age ! 
In  prime  of  life,  for  sprightliness  enroll'd 
Among  the  gay,  yet  virtuous  as  the  old  ; 

In  life's  last  stage,  (oh  blessings  rarely  found  !) 
Pleasant  as  youth  with  all  its  blossoms  crown'd, 
Through  every  period  of  this  changeful  state 
Unchanged  thyself — wise,  good,  affectionate ! 

Marble  may  flatter,  and  lest  this  should  seem 
O'er  charged  with  praises  on  so  dear  a  theme, 
Although  thy  worth  be  more  than  half  supprest 
Love  shall  be  satisfied,  and  veil  the  rest. 


THE  POET'S  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFT. 

MARIA  !  f  I  have  every  good 
For  thee  wish'd  many  a  time, 

Both  sad  and  in  a  cheerful  mood, 
But  never  yet  in  rhyme. 


*  The  father  of  Theodora  Cowper,  his  "  Delia." 


f  Mrs.  Throckmorton. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  447 

To  wish  thee  fairer  is  no  need, 

More  prudent,  or  more  sprightly, 
Or  more  ingenious,  or  more  freed 

From  temper's  flaws  unsightly. 

What  favor  then  not  yet  possess' d 

Can  I  for  thee  require, 
In  wedded  love  already  bless'd, 

To  thy  whole  heart's  desire  ? 

None  here  is  happy  but  in  part ; 

Full  bliss  is  bliss  divine  ; 
There  dwells  some  wish  in  every  heart, 

And  doubtless  one  in  thine. 

That  wish,  on  some  fair  future  day, 
Which  fate  shall  brightly  gild, 

blameless,  be  it  what  it  may,) 
I  wish  it  all  fulfill'd. 


THE  NEGRO'S  COMPLAINT. 

Forced  from  home  and  all  its  pleasures, 

Afric's  coast  I  left  forlorn  ; 
To  increase  a  stranger's  treasures, 

O'er  the  raging  billows  borne. 
Men  from  England  bought  and  sold  me, 

Paid  my  price  in  paltry  gold  ; 
But,  though  slave  they  have  enroll'd  me, 

Minds  are  never  to  be  sold.      \{ 

Still  in  thought  as  free  as  ever, 

What  are  England's  rights,  J  ask, 
Me  from  my  delights  to  sever, 

Me  to  torture,  me  to  task? 
Fleecy  locks  and  black  complexion 
.     Cannot  forfeit  nature's  claim  ; 
(  Skins  may  differ,  but  affection 
(^  Dwells  in  white  and  black  the  same. 

Why  did  all-creating  Nature 

Make  the  plant  for  which  we  toil  ? 

Sighs  must  fan  it,  tears  must  water, 
Sweat  of  ours  must  dress  the  soil. 


448  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Think,  ye  masters,  iron-hearted, 
Lolling  at  your  jovial  boards, 

Think  how  many  backs  have  smarted 
For  the  sweets  your  cane  affords. 

Is  there,  as  ye  sometimes  tell  us, 

Is  there  One  who  reigns  on  high  ? 
Has  He  bid  you  buy  and  sell  us, 

Speaking  from  His  throne,  the  sky  ? 
Ask  Him,  if  your  knotted  scourges, 

Matches,  blood-extorting  screws, 
Are  the  means  that  duty  urges 

Agents  of  His  will  to  use  ? 

Hark !  He  answers ! — wild  tornadoes 

Strewing  yonder  sea  with  wrecks, 
Wasting  towns,  plantations,  meadows, 

Are  the  voice  with  which  He  speaks. 
He,  foreseeing  what  vexations 

Afric's  sons  should  undergo, 
Fix'd  their  tyrants'  habitations  i 

Where  His  whirlwinds  answer — No.  \ 

By  our  blood  in  Afric  wasted, 

Ere  our  necks  received  the  chain  ; 
By  the  miseries  that  we  tasted, 

Crossing  in  your  barks  the  main  ; 
By  our  sufferings,  since  ye  brought  us 

To  the  man-degrading  mart. 
All  sustain'd  by  patience,  taught  us 

Only  by  a  broken  heart ! 

Deem  our  nation  brutes  no  longer, 

Till  some  reason  ye  shall  find 
Worthier  of  regard  and  stronger 

Than  the  color  of  our  kind. 
Slaves  of  gold,  whose  sordid  dealings 

Tarnish  all  your  boasted  powers, 
Prove  that  you  have  human  feelings 

Ere  you  proudly  question  ours  I 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  449 


PITY  FOR  POOR  AFRICANS. 

Video  meliora  proboque, 
Deteriora  sequor. 

I  OWN  I  am  shock'd  at  the  purchase  of  slaves, 
And  fear  those  who  buy  them  and  sell  them  are  knaves ; 
What  I  hear  of  their  hardships,  their  tortures,  and  groans 
Is  almost  enough  to  draw  pity  from  stones. 

I  pity  them  greatly,  but  I  must  be  mum, 

For  how  could  we  do  without  sugar  and  rum? 

Especially  sugar,  so  needful  we  see  ; 

What,  give  up  our  desserts,  our  coffee,  and  tea  ! 

Besides,  if  we  do,  the  French,  Dutch,  and  Danes 
Will  heartily  thank  us,  no  doubt,  for  our  pains ; 
If  we  do  not  buy  the  poor  creatures,  they  will ; 
And  tortures  and  groans  will  be  multiplied  still. 

If  foreigners  likewise  would  give  up  the  trade, 
Much  more  in  behalf  of  your  wish  might  be  said  ; 
But,  while  they  get  riches  by  purchasing  blacks, 
Pray  tell  me  why  we  may  not  also  go  snacks  ? 

Your  scruples  and  arguments  bring  to  my  mind 
A  story  so  pat,  you  may  think  it  is  coin\i, 
On  purpose  to  answer  you,  out  of  my  mint ; 
But  I  can  assure  you  I  saw  it  in  print. 

A  youngster  at  school,  more  sedate  than  the  rest, 
Had  once  his  integrity  put  to  the  test ; 
His  comrades  had  plotted  an  orchard  to  rob, 
And  ask'd  him  to  go  and  assist  in  the  job. 

He  was  shock'd,  sir,  like  you,  and  answer'd,  "Oh  no! 
What !  rob  our  good  neighbor?     I  pray  you,  don't  go ! 
Besides,  the  man's  poor,  his  orchard's  his  bread  : 
Then  think  of  his  children,  for  they  must  be  fed." 

!  You  speak  very  fine,  and  you  look  very  grave, 
Bnt  apples  we  want,  and  apples  we'll  have ; 
If  you  will  go  with  us,  you  shall  have  a  share, 
If  not,  you  shall  have  neither  apple  nor  pear." 

They  spoke,  and  Tom  ponder'd — "  I  see  they  will  go  ,1 
Poor  man !  what  a  pity  to  injure  him  so  ! 
Poor  man  1  I  would  save  him  his  fruit  if  I  could, 
But  staying  behind  will  do  him  no  good. 


45°  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

"  If  the  matter  depended  alone  upon  me, 
His  apples  might  hang  till  they  dropp'  d  from  the  tree 
But  since  they  will  take  them,  I  think  I'll  go  too ; 
He  will  lose  none  by  me,  though  I  get  a  few." 

His  scruples  thus  silenced,  Tom  felt  more  at  ease. 
And  went  with  his  comrades  the  apples  to  seize  ; 
He  blamed  and  protested,  but  join'd  in  the  plan  ; 
He  shared  in  the  plunder,  but  pitied  the  man. 


THE  MORNING  DREAM. 

'TWAS  in  the  glad  season  of  spring, 

Asleep  at  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
I  dream'd  what  I  cannot  but  sing, 

So  pleasant  it  seem'd  as  I  lay. 
I  dream'd  that,  on  ocean  afloat, 

Far  hence  to  the  westward  I  sail'd, 
While  the  billows  high  lifted  the  boat, 

And  the  fresh-blowing  breeze  never  fail'd. 

In  the  steerage  a  woman  I  saw ; 

Such  at  least  was  the  form  that  she  wore5 
Whose  beauty  impress'd  me  with  awe 

Ne'er  taught  me  by  woman  before. 
She  sat,  and  a  shield  at  her  side 

Shed  light,  like  a  sun  on  the  waves, 
And,  smiling  divinely,  she  cried — 

"  I  go  to  make  freemen  of  slaves." 

Then  raising  her  voice  to  a  strain 

The  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard, 
She  sang  of  the  slave's  broken  chain 

Wherever  her  glory  appear'd. 
Some  clouds,  which  had  over  us  hung, 

Fled,  chased  by  her  melody  clear, 
And  methought  while  she  liberty  sung, 

'Twas  liberty  only  to  hear. 

Thus  swiftly  dividing  the  flood, 
To  a  slave-cultur'd  island  we  came, 

Where  a  demon,  her  enemy,  stood — 
Oppression  his  terrible  name. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  45 

In  his  hand,  as  the  sign  of  his  sway, 

A  scourge  hung  with  lashes  he  bore, 
And  stood  looking  out  for  his  prey 

From  Africa's  sorrowful  shore. 

But  soon  as  approaching  the  land 

That  goddess-like  woman  he  view'd, 
The  scourge  he  let  fall  from  his  hand, 

With  blood  of  his  subjects  imbrued. 
I  saw  him  both  sicken  and  die, 

And  the  moment  the  monster  expired, 
Heard  shouts  that  ascended  the  sky, 

From  thousands  with  rapture  inspired. 

Awaking,  how  could  I  but  muse 

At  what  such  a  dream  should  betide  ? 
But  soon  my  ear  caught  the  glad  news 

Which  served  my  weak  thought  for  a  guide,— 
That  Britannia,  renown'd  o'er  the  waves 

For  the  hatred  she  ever  has  shown 
To  the  black-sceptred  rulers  of  slaves, 

Resolves  to  have  none  of  her  own. 


SWEET  MEAT  HAS  SOUR  SAUCE ; 

OR,   THE   SLAVE-TRADE   IN   THE  DUMPS. 

A  TRADER  I  am  to  the  African  shore, 

But  since  that  my  trading  is  like  to  be  o'er, 

I'll  sing  you  a  song  that  you  ne'er  heard  before, 

Which  nobody  can  deny,  deny. 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

When  I  first  heard  the  news  it  gave  me  a  shock, 
Much  like  what  they  call  an  electrical  knock, 
And  now  I  am  going  to  sell  off  my  stock, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

'Tis  a  curious  assortment  of  dainty  regales, 
To  tickle  the  negroes  with  when  the  ship  sails, 
Fine  chains  for  the  neck,  and  a  cat  with  nine  tails* 

Which  nobody,  &c. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Here's  supple-jack  plenty,  and  store  of  ratan, 
That  will  wind  itself  round  the  sides  of  a  man, 
As  close  as  a  hoop  round  a  bucket  or  can, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

Here's  padlocks  and  bolts,  and  screws  for  the  thumbs, 
That  squeeze  them  so  lovingly  till  the  blood  comes  ; 
They  sweeten  the  temper  like  comforts  or  plums, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

When  a  negro  his  head  from  his  victuals  withdraws, 
And  clenches  his  teeth  and  thrusts  out  his  paws, 
Here's  a  notable  engine  to  open  his  jaws, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

Thus  going  to  market,  we  kindly  prepare 
A  pretty  black  cargo  of  African  ware, 
For  what  they  must  meet  with  when  they  get  there, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

'T  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  'em  below 
Lie  flat  on  their  backs  all  the  way  as  we  go, 
Like  sprats  on  a  gridiron,  scores  in  a  row, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

But  ah  !  if  in  vain  I  have  studied  an  art 
So  gainful  to  me,  all  boasting  apart, 
I  think  it  will  break  my  compassionate  heart, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

For  oh  !  how  it  enters  my  soul  like  an  awl  ; 
This  pity,  .jvhich  some  people  self-pity  call, 
Is  sure  the  most  heart-piercing  pity  of  all, 

Which  nobody,  &c. 

So  this  is  my  song,  as  I  told  you  before  ; 
Come,  buy  off  my  stock,  for  I  must  no  more 
Carry  Caesars  and  Pompeys  to  sugar-cane  shore, 

Which  nobody  &c. 


EPIGRAM. 

To  purify  their  wine,  some  people  bleed 
A.  lamb  into  the  barrel,  and  succeed  ; 
No  nostrum,  planters  say,  is  half  so  good 
To  make  fine  sugar,  as  a  negro's  blood. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


453 


Now  lambs  and  negroes  both  are  harmless  things, 
And  hence  perhaps  this  wondrous  virtue  springs. 
'Tis  in  the  blood  of  innocence  alone — 
Good  cause  why  planters  never  try  their  own. 


THE   YEARLY   DISTRESS; 

OR,  TITHING-TIME  AT  STOCK,  IJf  ESSEX. 

Verses  addressed  to  a  country  derm/man*  complaining  of  tin-  disayrccnhh-ifss  of  the 
day  annually  appointed  for  rrcticiny  the  dues  at  the  pt 

COME,  ponder  well,  for  'tis  no 
jest, 

To  laugh  it  would  be  wrong, 
The  troubles  of  a  worthy  priest. 

The  burthen  of  my  song. 

This  priest  he  merry  is  and  blithe 

Three  quarters  of  a  year, 
But  oh  !  it  cuts  him  like  a  scythe 

When  tithing-time  draws  near. 

He  then  is   full  of    frights  and 
fears, 

As  one  at  point  to  die, 
And  long  before  the  day  appears 

He  heaves  up  many  a  sigh. 

For  then  the  farmers  come,  jog, 

jog, 

Along  the  miry  road, 
Each  heart  as  heavy  as  a  log, 
To  make  their  pay  HUM  its  good. 

In  sooth  the  sorrow  of  such  days 

Is  not  to  be  express'd, 
When  he  that  takes  and  he  that 
pays 

Are  both  alike  distress'd. 

Now  all  unwelcome  at  his  gates 

The  clumsy  swains  alight, 
With    rueful     faces    and    bald 
pates ; — 

He  trembles  at  the  sight. 


And  well  he  may,  for   well   he 
knows, 

Each  bumpkin  of  the  clan, 
Instead  of  paying  what  he  owes, 

Will  cheat  him  if  he  can. 

So  in  they  come — each  makes  his 
leg, 

And  flings  his  head  before, 
And  looks  as  if  he  came  to  beg, 

And  not  to  quit  a  score. 

"  And  how  dot's  miss  and  madam 

do, 

The  little  boy  and  all?" 
"All  tight  and  well.     And  how 

do  you, 
Good  Mr.  What-d'ye-call  ?  " 

The   dinner   comes,    and    down 

they  sit : 

Were  e'er  such  hungry  folk  ? 
There's    little   talking,    and    IK 

wit; 
It  is  no  time  to  joke. 

One    wipes    his   nose   upon   his 
sleeve, 

One  spits  upon  the  floor. 
Yet  not  to  give  offence  or  grieve, 

Holds  up  the  cloth  before. 


*  Mr.  Uivwin. 


454 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  punch  goes  round,  and  they 

are  dull 

And  lumpish  still  as  ever  ; 
Lake   barrels  with   their  bellies 

full, 
They  only  weigh  the  heavier. 

At  length  the  busy  time  begins. 
*'  Come,    neighbors,   we   must 

wag,"— 
The  money   chinks,  down  drop 

their  chins, 
Each  lugging  out  his  bag. 

One  talks  of  mildew  and  of  frost, 
And  one  of  storms  of  hail, 

And  one  of  pigs  that  he  has  lost 
By  maggots  at  the  tail. 


Quoth  one,  "  A  rarer  man  than 

you 

In  pulpit  none  shall  hear ; 
But  yet   methinks   to   tell    you 

true, 
You  sell  it  plaguy  dear." 

Oh  why  were  farmers  made  so 

coarse, 

Or  clergy  made  so  fine  ? 
A  kick  that  scarce  would  move 

a  horse, 
May  kill  a  sound  divine. 

Then  let  the  boobies  stay  at  home ; 

'Twould  cost  him  I  dare  say, 
Less   trouble   taking   twice    the 
sum 

Without  the  clowns  that  pay. 


SONNET 

ADDRESSED  TO  HENRY  COWPER,  ESQ.,*  1788. 

On  his  emphatical  and  interesting  Delivery  of  the  Defence  of  Warren  Hastings,  Esq.. 

in  the  House  of  Lords. 

COWPER,  whose  silver  voice,  task'd  sometimes  hard, 
Legends  prolix  delivers  in  the  ears 
(Attentive  when  thou  readest)  of  England's  peers, 

Let  verse  at  length  yield  thee  thy  just  reward. 

Thou  wast  not  heard  with  drowsy  disregard, 
Expending  late  on  all  that  length  of  plea 
Thy  generous  powers,  but  silence  honor' d  thee, 

Mute  as  e'er  gazed  on  orator  or  bard. 

Thou  art  not  voice  alone,  but  hast  beside 

Both  heart  and  head ;  and  couldst  with  music  sweet 
Of  Attic  phrase  and  senatorial  tone, 

Like  thy  renown'd  forefathers,  far  and  wide 
Thy  fame  diffuse,  praised  not  for  utterance  meet 
Of  others'  speecbj  but  magic -of  thy  own. 

*  Tfce  poet's  cousin. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  DOG  AND  THE  WATER  LILY. 


NO  FABLE. 


1788. 


THE  noon  was  shady,  and  soft 

airs 

Swept  Ouse's  silent  tide, 
When,    'scaped    from     literary 

cares, 
I  wander'd  on  his  side. 

My  spaniel,  prettiest  of  his  race, 

And  high  in  pedigree, 
(Two    nymphs  *    adorn'd    with 
every  grace 

That  spaniel  found  for  me,) 

Now  wariton'd  lost  in  flags  and 

reeds, 

Now  starting  into  sight, 
Pursued    the  swallow  o'er    the 

ineads 
\    With  scarce  a  slower  flight. 

It  was  the  time  when  Ouse  dis- 
play'd 

His  lilies  newly  blown  ; 
Their  beauties  I  intent  surveyed, 

And  one  I  wish'd  my  own. 

With  cane  extended  far  I  sought 
To  steer  it  close  to  land  ; 

But  still  the  prize,  though  nearly 

caught, 
Escaped  my  eager  hand. 

Beau    mark'd    my   unsuccessful 

pains 
With  fix'd  considerate  face, 


And  puzzling  set  his  puppy  brains 
To  comprehend  the  case. 

But   with  a  cherup  clear    and 

strong, 

Dispersing  all  his  dream, 
1  thence  withdrew,  and  followed 

long 
The  windings  of  the  stream. 

My  ramble  ended  I  return'd  ; 

Beau,  trotting  far  before, 
The  floating  wreath  again  dis- 
cern'd, 

And  plunging  left  the  shore. 

I  saw  him  with  that  lily  cropp'd 
Impatient  swim  to  meet 

My  quick  approach,  and  soon  he 

dropp'd 
The  treasure  at  my  feet. 

Charm'd   with  the  sight,  "The 
world,"  I  cried, 

44  Shall  hear  of  this  thy  deed : 
My  dog  shall  mortify  the  pride 

Of  man's  superior  breed  : 

"  But  chief  myself  I  will  enjoin, 

A^vake  at  duty's  call, 
To   show   a  love  as   prompt    a»« 
thine 

To  Him  who  gives  me  all." 


*  The  Gunnings,  daughters  of  Sir  Rohert  Gunning,  and  great-nieces  ot  the  celebr»*»4 
beauties  of  George  II  's  reigu. 


456 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MOTTO  FOB  A  CLOCK.* 

lenta  accedit,  quam  velox  praeterit  hora ! 
Ut  capias,  patiens  esto,  sed  esto  vigil ! 

THUS  TRANSLATED  BY  HAYLEY. 

Slow  comes  the  hour  ;  its  passing  speed  how  great ! 
Waiting  to  seize  it — vigilantly  wait ! 


ON  MRS.  MONTAGU'S  FEATHER  HANGINGS.f 

(June,  1788.) 


THE  birds  put  off  their  every  hue, 
To  dress  a  room  for  Montagu. 
The  peacock  sends  his  heavenly 

dyes, 

His  rainbows  and  his  starry  eyes; 
The  pheasant,  plumes  which 

round  infold 
His   mantling  neck  with  downy 

gold  ; 
The  cock  his  arched  tail's  azure 

show ; 
And,  river-blanched,   the  swan 

his  snow. 

All  tribes  beside  of  Indian  name, 
That  glossy  shine,  or  vivid  flame, 
Where  rises  and  where  sets  the 

day, 
Whate'er  they  boast  of  rich  and 

gay, 

Contribute  to  the  gorgeous  plan, 
Proud  to  advance  it  all  they  can. 
This  plumage  neither  dashing 

shower, 

Nor  blasts  that  shake  the  drip- 
ping bower, 


Shall  drench  again  or  discom- 
pose, 
But  screen'd    from  every  storm 

that  blows, 

It  boasts  a  splendor  ever  new, 
Safe  with  protecting  Montagu. 
To  the    same     patroness    re- 
sort, 

Secure  of  favor  at  her  court, 
Strong  Genius,  from  whose  forge 

of  thought 
Forms  rise  to  quick  perfection 

wrought, 
Which,  though  new-born,  with . 

vigor  move 
Like    Pallas,    springing    arm'd 

from  Jove ; 

Imagination  scattering  round 
Wild  roses  over  furro  w'd  ground 
Which  Labor  of  his  frown  be- 
guile, 

And  teach  Philosophy  a  smile  • 
Wit  flashing  on  Religion's  side, 
Whose    fires,    to    sacred   Truth 
applied, 


*  Cowper  wrote  this  motto  for  a  clock  which  Bacon  had  sculptured  for  George  ill. 
The  clock  and  lines  adorn  Her  Majesty's  presence  chamber  in  Windsor  Castle. 

t  Mrs.  Montague  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Robinson,  of  West  Lay  ton  in  Yorkshire. 
She  was  a  celebrated  literary  lady  who  wrote  "  A  Defence  of  Shakespeare,"  &C..  and 
entertained  literary  people  at  her  house.  The  feather  hangings  adorned  one  01  bet 
reception  rooms  where  the  "  Blue  Stocking  Club  "  met. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  gem,  though  luminous  be- 
fore, 

Obtrude  on  human  notice  more, 

Like  sunbeams  on  the  golden 
height 

Of  some  tall  temple  playing 
bright ; 

Well  tutor'd  Learning,  from  his 
books 

Uisiniss'd '  with  grave,  not 
haughty  looks, 

Their  order  on  his  shelves  exact, 

Not  more  harmonious  or  com- 
pact 

Than  that  to  which  he  keeps 
confined 

The  various  treasures  of  his 
mind  ; 

All  these  to  Montagu's  repair, 

Ambitious  of  a  shelter  there. 


There  Genius,  Learning,  Fancy, 

Wit, 

Their  ruffled  plumage  calm  refit, 
(For    stormy     troubles    loudest 

roar 
Around  their  flight  who  highest 

soar,) 

And  in  her  eye,  and  by  her  aid, 

Shine  safe  without  a  fear  to  fade. 

She    thus   maintains  divided 

sway  [day  ; 

With  yon  bright  regent  of  the 
The  Plume  and  Poet  both,  we 

know, 
Their    lustre    to    his    influence 

owe  ; 
And  she  the  works  of  Phoebus 

aiding, 
Both  Poet  saves  and  Plume  from 

fading 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  THROCKMORTON'S  BULL. 

FINCH.*    1788.  £  P£ 

YE  Nymphs,  if  e'er  your  eyes  were  red 
With  tears  o'er  hapless  favorites  shed, 

Oh,  share  Maria's  grief! 
Her  favorite,  even  in  his  cage, 
(What  will  not  hunger's  cruel  rage  ?) 

Assassinated  by  a  thief. 

Where  Rhenus  strays  his  vines  among, 
The  egg  was  laid  from  which  he  sprung  j 

And  though  by  nature  mute, 
Or  only  with  a  whistle  bless'd, 
Well-taught  he  all  the  sounds  expressed 

Of  flageolet  or  flute. 
The  honors  of  his  ebon  poll 
Were  brighter  than  the  sleekest  mole, 

His  bosom  of  the  hue 
With  which  Aurora  decks  the  skies, 
When  piping  winds  shall  soon  arise 

To  sweep  away  the  dew. 


*  It  was  eateu  by  a  rat. 


458  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Above,  below,  in  all  the  house, 
Dire  foe  alike  of  bird  and  mouse, 

No  cat  had  leave  to  dwell ; 
And  Bully's  cage  supported  stood 
On  props  of  smoothest  shaven  wood, 

Large-built  arid  latticed  well. 

Well-latticed, — but  the  grate,  alas  ! 
Not  rough  with  wire  of  steel  or  brass, 

For  Bully's  plumage  sake, 
But  smooth  with  wands  from  Ouse's  side, 
With  which,  when  neatly  peel'd  and  dried, 

The  swains  their  baskets  make. 

Night  veil'd  the  pole  :  all  seem'd  secure : 
When,  led  by  instinct  sharp  and  sure, 

Subsistence  to  provide, 
A  beast  forth  sallied  on  the  scout, 
Long  back'd,  long  tail'd,  with  whisker'd  snout, 

And  badger-color'd  hide. 

He,  entering  at  the  study  door, 
Its  ample  area  'gan  explore  ; 

And  something  in  the  wind 
Conjectured,  sniffing  round  and  round, 
Better  than  all  the  books  he  found, 

Food  chiefly  for  the  mind. 

Just  then,  by  adverse  fate  impress'd, 
A  dream  disturbed  poor  Bully's  rest ; 

In  sleep  he  seem'd  to  view 
A  rat  fast  clinging  to  the  cage, 
And  screaming  at  the  sad  presage, 

Awoke  and  found  it  true. 

For,  aided  both  by  ear  and  scent, 
Right  to  his  mark  the  monster  went, — 

Ah,  Muse  !  forbear  to  speak 
Minute  the  horrors  that  ensued  ; 
His  teeth  were  strong,  the  cage  was  wood,— 

He  left  poor  Bully's  beak. 

Oh,  had  he  made  that  too  his  prey ! 
That  beak  whence  issued  many  a  lay 

Of  such  mellifluous  tone, 
Might  have  repaid  him  well,  I  wot, 
For  silencing  so  sweet  a  throat, 

Fast  stuck  within  his  own. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  459 


Maria  weeps, — the  Muses  mourn — 
So,  when  by  Bacchanalians  torn, 

On  Thraciaii  Hebrus'  side, 
The  tree-enchanter  Orpheus  fell, 
His  head  alone  reinain'd  to  tell 

The  cruel  death  he  died. 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  AN  AFFLICTED  PROTESTANT 

LADY*  IN  FRANCE. 

MADAM, — 

A  STRANGER'S  purpose  in  these  lays 
Is  to  congratulate  and  not  to  praise. 
To  give  the  creature  the  Creator's  due 
Were  sin  in  me,  and  an  offence  to  you. 
From  man  to  man,  or  e'en  to  woman  paid, 
Praise  is  the  medium  of  a  knavish  trade, 
A  coin  by  craft  for  folly's  use  design'd, 
Spurious,  arid  only  current  with  the  blind. 
The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown : 
No  traveller  ever  reached  that  blest  abode, 
Who  found  not  thorns  and  briars  in  his  road. 
The  world  may  dance  along  the  flowery  plain, 
Cheer 'd  as  they  go  by  many  a  sprightly  strain  ; 
Where  Nature  has  her  mossy  velvet  spread, 
With  unshod  feet  they  yet  securely  tread  ; 
Admonish'd,  scorn  the  caution  and  the  friend, 
Bent  all  on  pleasure,  heedless  of  its  end. 
But  He,  who  knew  what  human  hearts  would  prove, 
How  slow  to  learn  the  dictates  of  His  love, 
That,  hard  by  nature  and  of  stubborn  will, 
A  life  of  ease  would  make  them  harder  still, 
In  pity  to  the  souls  His  grace  design'd 
To  rescue  from  the  ruins  of  mankind, 
Call'd  for  a  cloud  to  darken  all  their  years, 
And  said,  "Go  spend  them  in  the  vale  of  tears! " 
O  balmy  gales  of  soul -reviving  air  ! 
O  salutary  streams  that  murmur  there! 
These  flowing  from  the  Fount  of  Grace  above, 
Those  breathed  from  lips  of  everlasting  love. 


«  A  Mrs.  Billacoys. 


460  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  flinty  soil  indeed  their  feet  annoys, 

Chill  blasts  of  trouble  nip  their  springing  joys, 

An  envious  world  will  interpose  its  frown, 

To  mar  delights  superior  to  its  own, 

And  many  a  pang  experienced  still  within, 

Reminds  them  of  their  hated  inmate,  Sin  : 

But  ills  of  every  shape  and  every  name, 

Transform' d  to  blessings,  miss  their  cruel  aim  : 

And  every  moment's  calm  that  soothes  the  breast* 

Is  given  in  earnest  of  eternal  rest. 

Ah,  be  not  sad,  although  thy  lot  be  cast 

Far  from  the  flock,  and  in  a  boundless  waste  ! 

No  shepherd's  tents  within  thy  view  appear, 

But  the  chief  Shepherd  even  there  is  near ; 

Thy  tender  sorrows,  and  thy  plaintive  strain 

Flow  in  a  foreign  land,  but  not  in  vain ; 

Thy  tears  all  issue  from  a  source  divine, 

And  every  drop  bespeaks  a  Saviour  thine. 

So  once  in  Gideon's  fleece  the  dews  were  found, 

And  drought  on  all  the  drooping  herbs  around. 


THE  NEEDLESS  ALARM. 

A   TALE. 

THERE  is  a  field,  through  which  I  often  pass, 
Thick  overspread  with  moss  and  silky  grass, 
Adjoining  close  to  Kil wick's  echoing  wood, 
Where  oft  the  bitch-fox  hides  her  hapless  brood, 
Reserved  to  solace  many  a  neighboring  squire, 
That  he  may  follow  them  through  brake  and  brier, 
Contusion  hazarding  of  neck  or  spine, 
Which  rural  gentlemen  call  sport  divine. 
A  narrow  brook,  by  rushy  banks  conceal'd, 
Runs  in  a  bottom,  and  divides  the  field ; 
Oaks  intersperse  it,  that  had  once  a  head, 
But  now  wear  crests  of  oven-wood  instead ; 
And  where  the  land  slopes  to  its  watery  bourn 
Wide  yawns  a  gulf  beside  a  ragged  thorn ; 
Bricks  line  the  sides,  but  shiver'd  long  ago, 
And  horrid  brambles  intertwine  below  \ 
A  hollow  scooped,  I  judge,  in  ancient  time, 
For  baking  earth,  or  burning  rock  to  lime. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  461 

Not  yet  the  hawthorrie  bore  her  berries  red, 

With  which  the  fieldfare,  wintry  guest,  is  fed ; 

Nor  Autumn  yet  had  brush'd  from  every  spray, 

With  her  chill  hand,  the  mellow  leaves  away  ; 

But  corn  was  housed,  and  beans  were  in  the  stack  ; 

Now  therefore  issued  forth  the  spotted  pack, 

With  tails  high  mounted,  ears  hung  low,  and  throats 

With  a  whole  gamut  fill'd  of  heavenly  notes, 

For  which,  alas  !  my  destiny  severe, 

Though  ears  she  gave  me  two,  gave  me  no  ear. 

The  sun,  accomplishing  his  early  inarch, 
His  lamp  now  planted  on  heaven's  topmost  arch, 
When,  exercise  and  air  my  only  aim, 
And  heedless  whither,  to  that  field  I  came, 
Ere  yet  with  ruthless  joy  the  happy  hound 
Told  hill  and  dale  that  Reynard's  track  was  found; 
Or  with  the  high-raised  horn's  melodious  clang 
All  Kilwick  and  all  Dhigh-derry  *  rang. 

Sheep  grazed  the  field  ;  some  with  soft  bosom  press'd 
The  herb  as  soft,  while  nibbling  stray'd  the  rest; 
Nor  noise  was  heard  but  of  the  hasty  brook, 
Struggling,  detain'd  in  many  a  petty  nook. 
All  seem'd  so  peaceful,  that,  from  them  convey'd, 
To  me  their  peace  by  kind  contagion  spread. 

But  when  the  huntsman,  with  distended  cheek, 
'Gran  make  his  instrument  of  music  speak, 
And  from  within  the  wood  that  crash  was  heard, 
Though  not  a  hound  from  whom  it  burst  appear'd, 
The  sheep  recumbent  and  the  sheep  that  grazed, 
All  huddling  into  phalanx,  stood  and  gazed, 
Admiring,  terrified,  the  novel  strain, 

Then  coursed  the  field  around,  and  coursed  it  round  again  ; 
But  recollecting,  with  a  sudden  thought, 
That  flight  in  circles  urged  advanced  them  naught, 
They  gather'd  close  around  the  old  pit's  brink, 
Arid  thought  again — but  knew  not  what  to  think. 

The  man  to  solitude  accustom'd  long, 
Perceives  in  everything  that  lives  a  tongue ; 
Not  animals  alone,  but  shrubs  and  trees 
Have  speech  for  him,  and  understood  with  ease  j 
After  long  drought,  when  rains  abundant  fall, 
He  hears  the  herbs  and  flowers  rejoicing  all ; 
Knows  what  the  freshness  of  their  hue  implies, 
How  glad  they  catch  the  largess  of  the  skies ; 

*  Two  woods  belonging  to  John  Throckmorton,  Esq. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But,  with  precision  nicer  still,  the  mind 

He  scans  of  every  locomotive  kind  ; 

Birds  of  all  feather,  beasts  of  every  name, 

That  serve  mankind,  or  shun  them,  wild  or  tame  ; 

The  looks  and  gestures  of  their  griefs  and  fears 

Have  all  articulation  in  his  ears  ; 

He  spells  them  true  by  intuition's  light, 

And  needs  no  glossary  to  set  him  right. 

This  truth  premised  was  needful  as  a  text, 
To  win  due  credence  to  what  follows  next. 

A  while  they  mused  ;  surveying  every  face, 
Thou  hadst  supposed  them  of  superior  race  ; 
Their  periwigs  of  wool  and  fears  combined, 
Starnp'd  on  each  countenance  such  marks  of  mind 
That  sage  they  seem'd  as  lawyers  o'er  a  doubt, 
Which,  puzzling  long,  at  last  they  puzzle  out  ; 
Or  academic  tutors,  teaching  youths, 
Sure  ne'er  to  want  them,  mathematic  truths  ; 
When  thus  a  mutton  statelier  than  the  rest, 
A  ram,  the  ewes  arid  wethers  sad  address'd  • 

"  Friends  !  we  have  lived  too  long.     I  never  heard 
Sounds  such  as  these,  so  worthy  to  be  fear'd. 
Could  I  believe  that  winds  for  ages  pent 
In  earth's  dark  womb  have  found  at  last  a  vent, 
And  from  their  prison-house  below  arise, 
With  all  these  hideous  howlings  to  the  skies, 
I  could  be  much  composed,  nor  should  appear, 
For  such  a  cause,  to  feel  the  slightest  fear. 
Yourselves  have  seen,  what  time  the  thunders  roll'd 
All  night,  me  resting  quiet  in  the  fold. 
Or  heard  we  that  tremendous  bray  alone, 
I  could  expound  the  melancholy  tone  : 
Should  deem  it  by  our  old  companion  made, 
The  ass  ;  for  he,  we  know,  has  lately  strayed, 
Arid,  being  lost,  perhaps,  and  wandering  wide, 
Might  be  supposed  to  clamor  for  a  guide. 
But  ah  !  those  dreadful  yells  what  soul  can  hear, 
That  owns  a  carcass,  and  not  quake  for  fear. 
Demons  produce  them  doubtless,  brazen-claw'd, 
And  fang'd  with  brass  the  demons  are  abroad  j 
I  hold  it  therefore  wisest  and  most  fit 
That,  life  to  save,  we  leap  into  the  pit." 

Him  answer'd  then  his  loving  mate  and  true? 
But  more  discreet  than  he,  a  Cambrian  ewe  . 

*'  How  !  leap  into  the  pit  our  life  to  save  ? 
To  save  our  life  leap  all  into  the  grave  ? 
For  can  we  find  it  less  ?    Contemplate  first 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


'63 


The  depth  how  awful  !  falling  there  we  burst : 

Or  should  the  brambles  interposed  our  fall 

In  part  abute,  that  happiness  were  small ; 

For  with  a  race  like  theirs  no  chance  I  see 

Of  peace  or  ease  to  creatures  clad  as  we. 

Meantime,  noise  kills  not.     Be  it  Dapple's  bray, 

Or  be  it  not,  or  be  it  whose  it  may, 

And  rush  those  other  sounds,  that  seem  by  tongues 

Of  demons  utter'd,  from  whatever  lungs, 

Sounds  are  but  sounds,  and,  till  the  cause  appear, 

We  have  at  least  commodious  standing  here. 

Come  fiend,  come  fury,  giant,  monster,  blast 

From  earth  or  hell,  we  can  but  plunge  at  last." 

While  thus  she  spake,  I  fainter  heard  the  peals, 
For  Reynard,  close  attended  at  his  heels 
By  panting  dog,  tired  man,  and  spatter'd  horse. 
Through  mere  good  fortune,  took  a  different  coursa 
The  flock  grew  calm  again,  and  I,  the  road 
Following,  that  led  me  to  my  own  abode, 
Much  wonder'd  that  the  silly  sheep  had  found 
Such  cause  of  terror  in  an  empty  sound, 
So  sweet  to  huntsman,  gentleman,  and  hound. 


MORAL. 


Beware  of  desperate  steps.    The  darkest  day, 
Live  till  to-morrow,  will  have  pass'd  away. 


ANNUS  MEMORABILIS,  1789. 

WRITTEN  IN   COMMEMORATION   OF  HIS   MAJESTY'S   HAPPY 

RECOVERY. 


I  RANSACK'D  for  a  theme  of  song, 
Much    ancient    chronicle,     and 

long; 

I  read  of  bright  embattled  fields, 
Of  trophied  helmets,    pears,  and 

shields, 
Of  chiefs,  whose  single  arm  could 

boast 
Prowess  to  dissipate  a  host ; 


Through  tomes  of  fable  and  of 

dream 

I  sought  an  eligible  theme, 
But  none  I  found,  or  found  them 

shared 

Already  by  some  happier  bard. 
To  modern  times,  with  truth  to 

guide 
My  busy  search,  I  r.ext  applied  ; 


464 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Here  cities  won,   and  fleets  dis- 
persed. 

Urged   loud   a   claim   to   be  re- 
hearsed, 

Deeds  of  uriperishing  renown, 
Our  fathers'  triumphs  and  our 

own. 
Thus  as  the  bee,  from  bank  to 

bower. 

Assiduous  sips  at  every  flower, 
But  rests  on  none  till  that  be 

found 
Where  most   nectareous  sweets 

abound, 
So  I,  from  theme  to  theme  dis- 

play'd 

In  many  a  page  historic  stray'd, 
Siege  after  siege,  fight  after  fight, 
Contemplating    with  small   de- 
light, 

(For  feats  of  sanguinary  hue 
Not  always  glitter  in  my  view,) 
Till,  settling  on  the  current  year, 
I  found  the  far-sought  treasure 

near. 

A  theme  for  poetry  divine, 
A  theme  to  ennoble  even  mine, 
In  memorable  Eighty-nine. 
The  spring  of  Eighty-nine  shall 

be 

An  era  cherish 'd  long  by  me. 
Which  joyful  I  will  oft  record, 
And    thankful    at     my    frugal 

board  ; 

For  then  the  clouds  of  Eighty- 
eight, 

That  threaten'd  England's  trem- 
bling state 
With  loss  of  what  she  least  could 

spare, 

Her  sovereign's  tutelary  care, 
One   breath     of     heaven,    that 

cried — Restore  ! 

Chased,  never  to  assemble  more  ; 
And  for   the    richest  crown  on 
earth, 


If  valued  by  its  wearer's  worth, 

The  symbol  of  a  righteous  reign 

Sat  fast  on  George's  brows  again. 

Then    peace    and    joy    again 

possess' d 

Our  queen's  long  agitated  breast; 
Such  joy  and  peace  as   can  be 

known 

By  sufferers  like  herself  alone, 
Who  losing,  or  supposing  lost, 
The  good  on  earth  they  valued 

most, 

For  that  dear  sorrow's  sake  fore- 
go 

All  hope  of  happiness  below. 
Then  suddenly  regain  the  prize, 
And   flash  thanksgivings  to  the 

skies ! 
O  Queen  of  Albion,  queen  of 

isles  ! 
Since  all  thy  tears  were  changed 

to  smiles, 
The  eyes  that  never  saw   thee, 

shine 

With  joy  not  unalhed  to  thine, 
Transports  not  chargeable  with 

art 

Illume  the  land's  remotest  part, 
And  strangers  to  the  air  of  courts, 
Both  in  their  toilb  and  at  their 

sports, 
The     happiness     of      answer' d 

prayers, 
That  gilds  thy  features,  show  in 

theirs. 

If  they  who  on  thy  state  at- 
tend, 
Awe-struck,  before  thy  presence 

bend, 

'Tis  but  the  natural  effect 
Of  grandeur  that  insures  respect; 
But  she  is  something  more  than 

queen 
Who  is   beloved    where     neve* 

seen. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


465 


ON  THE  QUEEN'S  VISIT  TO  LONDON. 

THE   NIGHT    OF   THE    17TH    OF   MARCH,  1789. 


WHEN,  long  sequester 'd  from  his 

throne, 

George  took  his  seat  again, 
By   right  of   worth,    not   blood 

alone, 
Entitled  here  to  reign  ; 

Then  loyalty,  with  all  his  lamps 
New  trimm'd,  a  gallant  show, 

Chasing   the  darkness  and   the 

damps, 
Set  London  in  a  glow. 

'Twas  hard  to  tell  of  streets  or 

squares 

Which   forui'd  the   chief  dis- 
play, 
These  most  resembling  cluster'd 

stars, 
Those  the  long  milky  way. 

Bright  shone  the  roofs,  the  dome, 
the  spires, 

And  rockets  flew,  self-driven, 
To  hang  their  momentary  fires 

Amid  the  vault  of  heaven. 

So,  fire  with  water  to  compare, 
The  ocean  serves  on  high 

Up-spouted  by  a  whale  in  air, 
To  express  unwieldy  joy. 

Had  all  the  pageants  of  the  world 
In  one  procession  join'd, 

And  all   the  banners   been  un- 

furl'd 
That  heralds  e'er  designed  ; 

For  no  such  sight  had  England's 

queen 

Forsaken  her  retreat, 
Where,  George  recover 'd  made  a 

scene 
Swi»et  always,  doubly  sweet. 


Yet  glad  she  came  that  night  ta 
prove, 

A  witness  undescried, 
How  much  the  object  of  her  lo^e 

Was  loved  by  all  beside. 

Darkness  the  skies  had  mantled 

o'er 

In  aid  of  her  design, - 
Darkness,  O  Queen  I  ne'er  call'd 

before 
To  veil  a  deed  of  thine. 

On   borrow'd   wheels    away  she 
flies, 

Resolv'd  to  be  unknown, 
And  gratify  no  curious  eyes 

That  night  except  her  own. 

Arrived,  a  night  like  noon  she 

sees, 

And  hears  the  ^Million  hum  ; 
As  all  by  instinct,  like  the  bees, 
Had     kno\vn    their    sovereign 
come. 

Pleased   she   beheld    aloft    por- 
tray'd 

On  many  a  splendid  wall, 
Embelms  of  health  and  heavenly 

aid, 
And  George  the  theme  of  all. 

Unlike  the  enigmatic  line, 

So  difficult  to  spell, 
Which  shook  Belshazzar  at  hi* 
wine, 

The  night  his  city  fell. 

Soon  watery  grew  his  eyes  and 

dim, 

But  with  a  joyful  tear, 
None  else,  except  in   prayer   foi 

him, 
George  ever  drew  from  her. 


466 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


It  was  a  scene  in  every  part 
Like  those  in  fable  feign'  d, 

And  seem'd  by  some  magician's 

art 
Created  and  sustain'd. 

But  other  magic  there,  she 
knew, 

Had  been  exerted  none,  [view, 
To  raise  such  wonders  in  her 

Save  love  to  George  alone. 

That  cordial  thought  her  spirit 

cheer'd, 
And   through    the    cumbrous 

throng, 

Not  else  unworthy  to  be  fear'd. 
Convey'd  her  calm  along. 


So,  ancient  poets  say,  serene 
The  sea-maid  rides  the  waves. 

And  fearless  of  the  billowy  scene 
Her  peaceful  bosom  laves. 

With  more  than  astronomic  eyes 
She     view'd     the     sparkling 

show ; 
One   Georgian   star  adorns   the 

skies, 
She  myri&<is  found  below. 

Yet  let  the  glo  ries  of  a  night 
Like  that,  once  seen,  suffice, 

Heaven  grant  us  no  such  future 

sight, 
Such  previous  woe  the  price  ! 


ON    THE    BENEFIT    RECEIVED    BY    HIS    MAJESTY 
FROM   SEA-BATHING  IN   THE   YEAR   1789. 


O  SOVEREIGN  of  an  isle  renown'd 
For  undisputed  sway,  [found 

Wherever  o'er  yon  gulf  pro- 
Her  navies  wing  their  way, 

With  juster  claims  she  builds  at 
length 


Her  empire  on  the  sea, 
And  well  may  boast  the  waves 

her  strength 
Which    strength    restored    to 

Thee. 


THE   COCK-FIGHTER'S   GARLAND.* 


MUSE — hide  his  name  of  whom  I 
sing, 


Lest  his   surviving 
bring 


house   thou 


*  Written  on  reading  the  following  in  the  obituary  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for 
April,  1789  :— "  At  Tottenham,  John  Ardesoif,  Esq.,  a  young  man  of  large  fortune,  and 
in  the  splendor  of  his  carriages  and  horses  rivalled  by  few  country  gentlemen.  His 
table  was  that  of  hospitality,  where  it  may  be  said,  he  sacrificed  too  much  to  conviviality; 
but,  if  he  had  his  foibles,  he  had  his  merits  also,  that  far  outweighed  them.  Mr.  A.  was 
very  foud  of  cock-lighting,  and  had  a  favorite  cock  upon  which  he  had  won  many 
profitable  matches.  The  last  bet  he  laid  upon  this  cock  he  lost,  which  so  enraged  him 
that  he  had  the  bird  tied  to  a  spit  and  roasted  alive  before  a  large  fire.  The  screams  of 
the  miserable  animal  were  so  affecting,  that  some  gentlemen  who  were  present  at- 
tempted to  interfere,  which  so  enraged  Mr.  A.  that  he  seized  a  poker,  and  with  the 
most  furious  vehemence  declared  that  he  would  kill  the  first  man  who  interposed  ;  but, 
in  the  midst  of  his  passionate  asseverations,  he  fell  down  dead  upon  the  spot.  Such, 
we  are  assured,  were  the  circumstances  which  attended  the  death  of  this  great  pillar  or 
humanity."  [This  story  was  afterwards  found  to  be  false,  and  was  contradicted.— EoJ 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


467 


For  his  sake  into  scorn, 
Nor  speak  the  school  from  which 

he  drew 
The    much    or   little    which  he 

knew, 

Nor    place    where    he    was 
born. 

That  such  a  man  once  was,  may 

seem 

Worthy  of  record  (if  the  theme 
Perchance  may  credit  win), 
For  proof  to  man,  what  Man  may 

prove, 
If    grace    depart    and    demons 

move 
The  source  of  guilt  within. 

Phis  man  (for  since  the  howling 

wild 
Disclaims  him,  man  he  must  be 

styled) 

Wanted  no  good  below, 
Grentle  he  was,  if  gentle  birth 
Could  make  him  such  ;    and   he 

had  worth, 
If  wealth  can  worth  bestow. 

(n  social  talk  and  ready  jest 
fcle  shone  superior  at  the  feast, 

And  qualities  of  mind, 
Illustrious  in  the  eyes  of  those 
Whose  gay  society  he  chose 

Possess' d  of  every  kind. 

Vie  thinks   I  see    him    powder' d 

red, 

With     bushy    locks    his     well- 
dress' d  head 

Wing'd  broad  on  either  side, 
The  mossy  rosebud  not  so  sweet; 
Sis  steeds  superb,  his  carriage 

neat 
As  luxury  could  provide. 

Can  such  be  cruel  ?   Such  can  be 
Cruel  as  hell,  and  so  was  he  ; 


A  tyrant  entertain'd 
With    barbarous  sports,  whose 

fell  delight 

Was  to  encourage  mortal  fight 
'Twixt      birds      to      battle 
trairi'd. 

One     feather' d     champion     he 

possess'd, 

His  darling  far  beyond  the  rest, 
Which  never  knew  disgrace, 
Nor  e'er  had  fought,  but  he  made 

flow 

The  life-blood  of  his  fiercest  foe, 
The  Caesar  of  his  race. 

It  chanced,  at  last,  when,  on  a 

day, 
He  push'd  him   to  a  desperate 

fray, 

His  courage  droop'd,  he  fled. 
The    master  storm 'd,  the  prize 

was  lost, 

And,  instant,  frantic  at  the  cost, 
He  doom'd  his  favorite  dead. 

He  seized  him  fast,  and  from  the 

pit 
Flew  to  the  kitchen,  snatch' d  the 

spit, 
And,  "  Bring  me  cord,"  he 

cried  ; 
The  cord   was   brought,  and,  at 

his  word, 

To  that  dire  implement  the  bird, 
Alive  and  struggling,  tied. 

The  horrid  sequel  asks  a  veil, 
And  all  the  terrors  of  a  tale 

That     can     be,     shall     be, 

sunk. — 
Led    by    the  sufferer's  screams 

aright 
His  shock'd  companions  view  th6 

sight 
And  him  with  fury  drunk. 


468 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


All,  suppliant,  beg  a  milder  fate 
For  the  old  warrior  at  the  grate  : 

He,  deaf  to  pity's  call, 
Whirled  round  him,  rapid   as   a 

wheel, 
His  culinary  club  of  steel, 

Death  menacing  on  all. 

But  vengeance  hung  not  far  re- 
mote, 

For  while  he  stretch'd  his  clam- 
orous throat, 

And  heaven  and  earth  de- 
fied, 


Big  with  a  curse  too  closely  pent 

That  struggled  vainly  for  a  vent, 

He  totter'd,  reel'd,  and  died. 

•Tis  not  for  us,  with   rash  sur- 
prise, 
To  point   the  judgment    to  the 

skies  ; 

But  judgments  plain  as  this, 
That,  sent  for  man's  instruction, 

bring 

A  written  label  on  their  wing, 
'Tis  hard  to  read  amiss. 


HYMN, 

FOR  THE  USE  OF  THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  AT  OLNEY.* 


HEAR,  Lord,  the  song  of  praise 

and  prayer, 

In  heaven  Thy  dwelling  place, 
From  infants  made   the  pul  iic 

care, 
And  taught  to  seek  Thy  face ! 

Thanks   for  Thy  Word,  and  for 
Thy  Day  ; 

And  grant  us,  we  implore, 
Never  to.  waste  in  sinful  play 

Thy  holy  Sabbaths  more. 

Thanks  that  we  hear, — but   oh  ! 

impart 

To  each  desires  sincere, 
Tiiat   we   may   listen   with   our 

heart, 
And  learn  as  well  as  hear. 


For  if  vain  thoughts  the   minds 

engage 

Of  older  far  than  we, 
What  hope  that  at  our  heedless 

age 
Our  minds  e'er  should  be  free  ? 

Much  hope,  if  Thou   our  spirits 
take 

Under  Thy  gracious  sway, 
Who  canst  the  wisest  wiser  make 

And  babes  as  wise  as  they. 

Wisdom  and  bliss  Thy  word  be- 
stows, 

A  sun  that  ne'er  declines  ; 
And  be  Thy  mercies  shower'd  on 

those 

Who     placed     us     whejre     it 
shines. 


*  Written  at  the  request  of  the  Vicar  of  Olney,  to  be  sung  on  the  occasion  of  bis 
preaching  to  the  children  of  the  Sunday  School. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


469 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OP  A  HAMPER.* 

(IN   THE   MANNER   OP  HOMER.) 


THE  straw-stuff 'd  hamper  with 
his  ruthless  steel 

He  open'd,  cutting  sheer  the  in- 
serted cords, 

Which  bound  the  lid  and  lip 
secure.  Forth  came 

The  rustling  package  first,  bright 
straw  of  wheat, 


Or  oats,  or  barley  ;  next  a  bottle 

green 
Throat-full,  clear  spirits  the  con 

tents,  distill'd 
Drop  after  drop  odorous,  by  the 

art 
Of  the  fair  mother  of  his  friend— 

the  Rose. 


ON  A  MISCHIEVOUS  BULL, 

WHICH   THE    OWNKR   OF   HIM   SOLD   AT   THE   AUTHOR'S    INSTANCE. 


Go  ! — thou  art  all  unfit  to  share 
The  pleasures  of  this  place 

With  such  as  its  old  tenants  an-. 
Creatures  of  gentler  race. 

The    squirrel    here     his     hoard 

provides, 

Aware  of  wintry  storms  \ 
And   woodpeckers    explore    the 

sides 
Of  rugged  oaks  for  worms. 

The    sheep    here    smooths    the 
knotted  thorn 

With  frictions  of  her  fleece  ; 
And  here  I  wander  eve  and  morn, 

Like  her,  a  friend  to  peace. 


Ah  ! — I  could  pity  the  exiled 
From  this  secure  retreat ; — 

I  would  not  lose  it  to  be  sty  led 
The  happiest  of  the  great. 

But  thou   canst   taste  no  calm 
delight, 

Thy  pleasure  is  to  show 
Thy  magnanimity  in  fight, 

Thy  prowess, — therefore,  go  \ 

I  care  not  whether  east  or  north 
So  I  no  more  may  find  thee  ; 
The  angry  muse  thus  sings  thee 

forth, 

And   claps    the    gate   behind 
thee. 


*  Sent  by  Mr.  Rose  to  the  poet. 


470  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


VERSES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DR.  LLOYD,* 

SPOKEN   AT   THE   WESTMINSTER    ELECTION   NEXT     AFTER     HIS 

DECEASE. 

OUR  good  old  friend  is  gone,  gone  to  his  rest, 

Whose  social  converse  was  itself  a  feast. 

O  ye  of  riper  years,  who  recollect 

How  once  ye  loved  and  eyed  him  with  respect, 

Both  in  the  firmness  of  his  better  day, 

While  yet  he  ruled  you  with  a  father's  sway, 

And  when  impair'd  by  time,  and  glad  to  rest, 

Yet  still  with  looks  in  mild  complacence  drest, 

He  took  his  annual  seat,  and  mingled  here 

His  sprightly  vein  with  yours, — now  drop  a  tear 

In  morals  blameless  as  in  manners  meek, 

He  knew  no  wish  that  he  might  blush  to  speak, 

But,  happy  in  whatever  state  below, 

And  richer  than  the  rich  in  being  so, 

Obtain'd  the  hearts  of  all,  and  such  a  meed 

At  length  from  one,  as  made  him  rich  indeed. 

Hence,  then,  ye  titles,  hence,  not  wanted  here 

Go,  garnish  merit  in  a  higher  sphere, 

The  brow  of  those,  whose  more  exalted  lot 

He  could  congratulate,  but  envied  not. 

Light  lie  the  turf,  good  senior,  on  thy  breast ! 

And  tranquil  as  thy  mind  was,  be  thy  rest, 

Though,  living,  thou  hadst  more  desert  than  fame, 

And  not  a  stone  now  chronicles  thy  name. 

ABUT  senex  !     Periit  senex  amabilis ! 

Quo  non  fuit  jucundior. 
Lugete  vos,  setas  quibus  inaturior 

Senem  colendum  prsestitit, 
Seu  quando,  viribus  valentioribus 

Firmoque  fretus  pectore, 
Florentiori  vos  juventute  excolens 

Cura  fovebat  patria ; 
Seu  quando,  fractus,  jamque  donatus  rude, 

Vultu  sed  usque  blandulo, 
Miscere  gaudebat  suas  facetias 

His  annuis  leporibus. 
Vixit  probus,  puraque  simplex  indole, 

Blandisque  comis  moribus, 
Et  dives  aequa  mente, — charus  omnibus, 

Unius  auctus  munere. 


*  He  was  the  father  of  Robert  Lloyd,  and  usher  and  undermaster  at  Westminster 
for  nearly  fifty  years.    He  received  a  handsome  retiring  pension  from  the  king. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  47 


Ite,  tituli !  Meritis  beatioribus 

Aptate  laudes  debitas  ! 
Nee  invidebat  ille,  si  quibus  favens 

Fortuna  plus  arriserat. 
Placide  senex !  levi  quiescas  cespite, 

Etsi  superbum  nee  vivo  tibi 
Decus  sit  inditum,  nee  mortuo 

Lapis  notatus  nomine. 


TO  MRS.  THROCKMORTON, 

ON  HER  BEAUTIFUL  TRANSCRIPT  OF  HORACE'S  ODE    "  AD  LIBRUM 

SUUM."  * 

MARIA,  could  Horace  have  guesa'd 

What  honor  awaited  his  ode 
To  his  own  little  volume  address'd, 

The  honor  which  you  have  bestow'd 
Who  have  traced  it  in  characters  here, 

So  elegant,  even,  and  neat, 
He  had  laugh' d  at  the  critical  sneer 

Which  he  seems  to  have  trembled  to  meet. 


And,  "Sneer  if  you  please,"  he  had  said, 

"A  nymph  shall  hereafter  arise, 
Who  shall  give  me,  when  you  are  all  dead, 

The  glory  your  malice  denies ; 
Shall  dignity  give  to  my  lay, 

Although  but  a  mere  bagatelle  ; 
And  even  a  poet  shall  say, 

Nothing  ever  was  written  so  well." 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE  OUT 

OF  NORFOLK, 

THE  GIFT  OF  MY  COUSIN,  ANN  BODHAM. 

OH  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  pass'd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 


*  "  Two  odes  by  Horace  have  been  lately  discovered  at  Rome  ;  I  wanted  them 
transcribed  imo  the  blank  leaves  of  a  little  Horace  of  mine,  and  Mrs.  Throckmorton 
performed  that  service  for  me  ;  in  a  blank  leaf,  therefore,  of  the  same  book  I  wrote 
the  following."— To  Lady  Hesktt7i.  Feb.  9,  1700. 


472  MISCELLANEOUS  PO$MS. 

Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
'  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  I  " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the,  art  that  can  immortalize — 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 

.Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  ; 
|And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charin  for  my  relief, 

y     Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

;  A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother !  when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 

\s  Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss  ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  ! — it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  words  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived  ; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

'         Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt    our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor  ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp'd 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  473 


In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capp'd, 

'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 

That  once  we  call'd  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 

Short-lived  possession  I     But  the  record  fair, 

That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 

Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid  j 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum  ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd  : 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  rou«rln-n'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks, 

That  humor  interposed  too  often  mak<-s  ;  >/ 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn'd  111  heaven^  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers^ 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile), 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart ; — the  dear  delight 
'Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
^That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again.  c-" 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
Thej^sitsquiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
Whil.e_  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ; 
So  thou,  with  sails  ho\v  swift !  hast  reach'd  the  shore. 


474 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


1  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar ;"  * 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But. me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd, — 
e  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
ails  ripp'd,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost 
rid  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
ets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course, 
et,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 

'rom  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  ; 
yBut  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise, — 
(The  son  of  parents  pass'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell ! — Time  unrevok'd  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
,  By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
|  I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again  ; 
I  To  have  renew' d  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
I  Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft, 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  STONE 

ERECTED   AT   THE   SOWING   OF  A   GROVE   OF    OAKS    AT   CHILLING- 
TON,   THE  SEAT  OF  T.  GIFFARD,  ESQ.,  JUNE,  1790. 


OTHER  stones  the  era  tell, 
When  some  feeble  mortal  fell ; 
I  stand  here  to  date  the  birth 
Of  these  hardy  sons  of  Earth. 
Which  shall  longest  brave  the 

sky, 
Storm     and    frost — these    oaks 

or  I? 

Pass  an  age  or  two  away, 
I  must  moulder  and  decay  ; 


But  the  years  that  crumble  me 
Shall  invigorate  the  tree, 
Spread  its  branch,  dilate  its  size. 
Lift  its  summit  to  the  skies. 

Cherish  honor,  virtue,  truth, 
So  shalt  thou  prolong  thy  youth. 
Wanting  these,  however  fast  i 
Man  be  fix'd,  and  form'd  to  last 
He  is  lifeless  even  now, 
Stone  at  heart,  and  cannot  grow. 


*  Garth. 


MJSCEL  L  A  NEO  US  POEMS. 


475 


ANOTHER, 

FOR   A    STONE   ERECTED   ON   A    SIMILAR   OCCASION   AT   THE  SAME 
PLACE   IN   THE   FOLLOWING    YEAR. 


READER  !  behold  a  monument 
That  asks  no  sigh  or  tear, 


Though  it  perpetuate  the  event 
Of  a  great  burial  here. 


TO  MRS.  KING, 

ON     HER    KIND   PRESENT   TO   THE    AUTHOR,  A   PATCHWORK  COUN- 
TERPANE  OF   HER  OWN   MAKING.      AUGUST,  1790. 


THE  bard,  if  e'er  he  feel  at  all, 
Must    sure    be    quicken'd   by  a 

call 

Both  on  his  heart  and  head, 
To  pay  with  tuneful  thanks  the 

care 

Arid  kindness  of  a  lady  fair 
Who  deigns  to  deck  his  bed. 

A  bed  like  this,  in  ancient  time, 
On  Ida's  barren  top  sublime, 

(As  Homer's  epic  shows,) 
Composed     of    sweetest    vernal 

flowers, 
Without    the     aid    of    sun    or 

showers, 
For  Jove  and  Juno  rose. 

Less  beautiful,  however  gay, 
Is  that  which  in  the  scorching 

day 

Receives  the  weary  swain, 
Who,   laying    his    long    scythe 

aside, 
Sleeps  on  some  bank  with  daisies 

pied, 
Till  roused  to  toil  again. 


What  labors  of  the  loom  I  see ! 
Looms  numberless  have  groan 'd 

for  me  1 

Should  every  maiden  come 
To   scramble  for   a  patch   that 
bears,  [wears, 

The   impress    of    the    robe    she 
The  bell  would  toll  for  some. 

And  oh,  what  havoc  would  en- 
sue ! 
This  bright  display  of  every  hue 

All  in  a  moment  fled  ! 
As  if  a  storm  should  strip  the 

bowers 
Of  all  their  tendrils,  leaves,  and 

flowers, — 
Each  pocketing  a  shred. 

Thanks,  then,   to  every   gentle 

Fair 
Who  will  not  come  to  peck  me 

bare 

As  bird  of  borrow' d  feather, 
And  thanks  to  one  above  them 

all, 

The  gentle  fair  of  Pertenhall, 
Who  put  the  whole  together- 


476 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


STANZAS. 

ON   THE  LATE   INDECENT   LIBERTIES   TAKEN    WITH   THE   REMAINS 

OF   MILTON.      ANNO    1790.* 


"ME  too,  perchance,  in  future 

days, 

The    sculptured    stone    shall 
show,  [bays 

With   Paphian  myrtle  or  with 
Parnassian  on  my  brow. 

"  But  I,  or  e'er  that  season  come, 
Escaped  from  every  care, 

Shall    reach   my  refuge  in    the 

tomb, 
And  sleep  securely  there. "f 

So    sang,    in   Roman   tone  and 

style, 

The  youthful  bard,  ere  long 
Ordain'd    to   grace    his    native 

isle 
With  her  sublimest  song. 


Who  then  but  must  conceive  dis- 
dain, 

Hearing  the  deed  unblest, 
Of    wretches    who   have    dared 

profane 
His  dread  sepulchral  rest  ? 

Ill  fare  the  hands  that  heaved 

the  stones 

Where  Milton's  ashes  lay, 
That  trembled  not  to  grasp  his 

bones 
And  steal  his  dust  away ! 

0  ill-requited  bard  !  neglect 
Thy  living  worth  repaid, 

And  blind  idolatrous  respect 
As  much  affronts  the  dead. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  LATE  J.  THORNTON,  ESQ.* 

[November,  1790.J 

POETS  attempt  the  noblest  task  they  can, 
Praising  the  Author  of  all  good  in  man, 
And,  next,  commemorating  Worthies  lost, 
The  dead  in  whom  that  good  abounded  most. 

Thee,  therefore,  of  commercial  fame,  but  more 
Famed  for  thy  probity  from  shore  to  shore  ; 


*  This  shocking  outrage  took  place  in  1790  whilst  the  Church  of  St.  Giles,  Cripple- 
gate,  was  repairing.  The  overseers  (for  the  sake  of  gain)  opened  a  coffin  supposed  to 
be  Milton's,  found  a  body,  extracted  its  teeth,  cut  off  its  hair,  and  left  the  remains  to 
the  grave-diggers,  who  exhibited  them  for  money  to  the  public. 

t  Forsitan  et  nostros  ducat  de  marmore  vultus, 
Nectens  aut  Paphia  myrti  aut  Parnasside  lauri 
Fronde  comas— at  ego  secura  pace  quiescam. 

Milton  in  Manso. 

t  Mr.  Thornton  was  a  wealthy  merchant,  the  patron  a:id  friend  of  Newton,  to  whom 
he  allowed  200£.  a  year  (and  as  much  more  as  he  should  ask  for)  to  spend  in  hospitality 
charity. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  477 


Thee,  Thornton !  worthy  in  some  page  to  shine, 
As  honest  and  more  eloquent  than  mine, 
I  mourn  ;  or,  since  thrice  happy  thou  must  be, 
The  world,  no  longer  thy  abode,  not  thee. 
Thee  to  deplore  were  grief  misspent  indeed  ; 
It  were  to  weep  that  goodness  has  its  meed, 
That  there  is  bliss  prepared  in  yonder  sky, 
And  glory  for  the  virtuous,  when  they  die. 

What  pleasure  can  the  miser's  fondled  hoard 
Or  spendthrift's  prodigal  excess  afford, 
Sweet  as  the  privilege  of  healing  woe 
By  virtue  sutt'er'd  combating  below? 
That  privilege  was  thine  ;  Heaven  gave  thee  mean. 
To  illumine  with  delight  the  saddest  scenes, 
Till  thy  appearance  chased  the  gloom,  forlorn 
As  midnight,  and  despairing  of  a  inorri. 
Thou  hadst  an  industry  in  doing  good, 
Restless  as  his  who  toils  and  sweats  for  food  ; 
Avarice,  in  thee,  was  the  desire  of  wealth 
By  rust  unperishable  or  by  stealth  ; 
And  if  the  genuine  worth  of  gold  depend 
On  application  to  its  noblest  end, 
Thine  had  a  value  in  the  scales  of  Heaven, 
Surpassing  all  that  mine  or  mint  had  given. 
And,  though  God  made  thee  of  a  nature  prone 
To  distribution  boundless  of  thy  own, 
And  still,  by  motives  of  religious  force 
Impell'd  thee  more  to  that  heroic  course, 
Yet  was  thy  liberality  discreet, 
Nice  in  its  choice,  and  of  a  temper'd  heat ; 
And  though  in  act  unwearied,  secret  still, 
As  in  some  solitude,  the  summer  rill 
Refreshes   where  it  winds,  the  faded  green, 
And  cheers  the  drooping  flowers,  unheard,  unseen 

Such  was  thy  charity  \  no  sudden  start, 
After  long  sleep,  of  passion  in  the  heart, 
But  steadfast  principle,  and  in  its  kind, 
Of  close  relation  to  the  Eternal  Mind, 
Traced  ^asily  to  its  true  source  above, 
To  Him,  whose  works  bespeak  His  nature,  love. 

Thy  bounties  all  were  Christian,  and  I  make 
This  record  of  thee  for  the  Gospel's  sake  ; 
That  the  incredulous  themselves  may  see 
Its  use  and  power  exemplified  in  thee. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS- 


SEDITIONEM  HORRENDAM,* 


CORRUPTELIS   GALLICIS,    UT    FEBTUR,  LONDINI    NUPER  EXORTAM. 

PERFIDA,  crudelis,  victa  et  lymphata  furore, 

Non  armis,  laurum  Gallia  fraude  petit. 
Venalem  pretio  plebein  conducit,  et  urit 

Undique  privatas  patriciasque  domos. 
Nequicquam  conata  sua,  foedissima  sperat 

Posse  tamen  nostra  nos  superare  inarm. 
Grallia,  vana  struts  !  Precibus  nunc  utere  !  Vinces, 

Nam  mites  timidis,  supplicibusque  sumus. 

TRANSLATION. 

FALSE,  cruel,  disappointed,  stung  to  the  heart, 
France  quits  the  warrior's  for  the  assassin's  part, 
To  dirty  hands  a  dirty  bribe  conveys, 
Bids  the  low  street  and  lofty  palace  blaze. 
Her  sons  too  weak  to  vanquish  us  alone, 
She  hires  the  worst  and  basest  of  our  own, 
Kneel,  France  1  a  suppliant  conquers  us  with  ease, 
We  always  spare  a  coward  on  his  knees. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  THE  POETS.f 


Two  nymphs,  both  nearly  of  an 

age, 

Of  numerous  charms  possess'd, 
A  warm  dispute  once  chanced  to 

wage, 
Whose  temper  was  the  best. 

The   worth   of    each  had   been 

complete, 

Had  both  alike  been  mild  : 
But  one,  although  her  smile  was 

sweet, 

Frown'd    oftener    than     she 
smiled. 


And  in  her  humor,   when  she 

frown' d, 
Would   raise    her    voice    and 

roar, 
And    shake    with    fury    to   the 

ground 
The  garland  that  she  wore. 

The  other  was  of  gentler  cast, 
From  all  such  frenzy  clear, 

Her  frowns  were  seldom  known 

to  last, 
And  never  proved  severe. 


*  Cowper  wrote  these  lines  believing  at  the  time  that  the  French  had  (as  asserted 
by  the  newspapers  of  the  day)  instigated  the  Gordon  riots. 

t  This  poem  was  written  in  May,  1791,  when  the  season  was  very  backward. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


479 


To  poets  of  renown  in  song 
The  nymphs  referred  the  cause, 

Who,  strange  to  tell,  all  judged 

it  wrong, 
And  gave  misplaced 


They  gentle  call'd,  and  kind  and 

soft, 

The  flippant  and  the  scold, 
And    though  she   changed  her 

mood  so  oft, 
That  failing  left  untold. 

No    judges,   sure,  were  e'er  so 

mad, 

Or  so  resolved  to  err,  — 
In  short,  the  charms   her  sister 

had 
They  lavished  all  on  her. 


Then  thus  the  god  whom  fondly 

they 

Their  great  iiispirer  call, 
Was  heard,  one  genial  summer's 

day,  ^ 
To  reprimand  them  all : 

"Since  thus  ye  have  combined,'* 

he  said, 

"  My  favorite  nymph  to  slight, 
Adorning     May,     that    peevish 

maid, 
With  June's  undoubted  right, 

"  The  minx  shall,  for  your  folly's 

sake, 

Still  prove  herself  a  shrew. 
Shall     make     your     scribbling 

finger's  ache, 
And  pinch  your  noses  blue." 


YARDLEY  OAK.* 


1791. 

SURVIVOR  sole,  and  hardly  such,  of  all 

That  once  lived  here,  thy  brethren  !  at  my  birth, 

(Since  which  I  number  threescore  winters  past), 

A  shatter'  d  veteran,  hollow-trunk'd  perhaps, 

As  now,  .and  with  excoriate  forks  deform, 

Relics  of  ages  1  could  a  mjmjk  imbued 

With  truth  from  heaven,  created  Thiii^  adore, 


I  might  with  reverence  kiiuul.  ami  w«.j>hip  thee. 

It  seems  idolatry,  with  some  excuse, 
When  our  forefather  Druids  in  their  oaks 
Imagined  sanctity.     The  conscience,  yet 
Unpurified  by  an  authentic  act 
Of  amnesty,  the  meed  of  blood  divine, 
Loved  not  the  light,  but,  gloomy,  into  gloom 
Of  thickest  shades,  like  Adam  after  taste 
Of  fruit  proscribed,  as  to  a  refuge,  fled. 

Thou  wast  a  bauble  once  ;  a  cup  and  ball     •/ 


Yardley  oak  stood  in  Yardley  Chase. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Which  babes  might  play  with  ;  and  the  thievish  jay. 

Seeking  uer  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloin'd 

The  auburn  nut  that  held  thee,  swallowing  down 

Thy  yet  clos^ folded  latitude  of  boughs 

And  all  thine  embryo  va<stnes;s  s.t  -a  gulp,    y 

But  Fate  thy  growth  decreed  ;  autumnal  rains 

Beneath  thy  pare:.it  tree  mellow 'd  the  soil 

Desigri'd  thy  cradle  ;  and  a  skipping  deer, 

With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  the  glebe,  prepared 

The  soft  receptacle,  in  which,  secure, 

Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through. 

So  fancy  dreams.     Disprove  it,  if  ye  can, 
Ye  reasoners  broad  awake,  whose  busy  search 
Of  argument,  employed  too  oft  amiss, 
Sifts  half  the  pleasures  of  short  life  away  ! 

Thou  fell'st  mature  ;  and,  in  the  loamy  clod 
Swelling  with  vegetative  force  instinct 
Didst  burst  thine  egg,  as  theirs  the  fabled  Twins, 
Now  stars  ;  two  lobes  protruding,  pair'd  exact ; 
A  leaf  succeeded,  and  another  leaf, 
And,  all  the  elements  thy  puny  growth 
Fostering  propitious,  thou  becamest  a  twig. 

Who  lived  when  thou  wast  such  ?  Oh,  couldst  thou  speak 
As  in  Dodona  once  thy  kindred  trees 
Oracular,  I  would  not  curious  ask 
The  future,  best  unknown,  but  at  thy  mouth 
Inquisitive,  the  less  ambiguous  past. 

By  thee  I  might  correct,  erroneous  oft, 
The  clock  of  history,  facts  and  events 
Timing  more  punctual,  unrecorded  facts 

Recovering,  and  misstated  setting  right 

Desperate  attempt,  till  trees  shall  speak  again ! 

Time  made  thee  what  thou  wast,  king  of  the  woods ; 
And  time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in.     Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O'erhung  the  champaign  ;  and  the  numerous  flocks 
That  grazed  it,  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
TJncrowded,  yet  safe  shelter'd  from  the  storm. 
No  flock  frequents  thee  now.     Thou  hast  outlived 
Thy  pj)j)ularity,  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a  thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth. 

While  thus  through  all  the  stages  thou  hast  push'd 
Of  treeship — first  a  seedling  hid  in  grass  :  • 

Then  twig  \  then  sapling ;  and,  as  century  roll'd 
Slow  after  century,  a  giant  bulk 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


481 


< 


\ 


Of  girth  enormous,  with  moss-cushion'  d  root 
Upheaved  above  the  soil,  and  sides  emboss'd 
Withjprominent  wens_  globose,  —  till  at  the  last 
TheT  rottenness,  which  Time  is  charged  to  inflict 
On  other  mighty  ones,  found  also  thee. 
/x  What  exhibitions  various  hath  the  world 
/  Witness'd  of  mutability  in  all 
(  That  we  account  most  durable  below  ! 
I  Change  is  11  10  diet,  on  which  all  subsist, 
I  Created  c  1          -able,  and  change  at  last 
^Destroys  them.     Skies  uncertain,  now  the  heat 
Transmitting  cloudless,  and  the  solar  beam 
Now  quenching  in  a  boundless  sea  of  clouds,  — 
Calm  and  alternate  storm,  moisture  and  drought, 
Invigorate  by  turns  the  springs  of  life 
In  all  that  live,  plant,  animal,  arid  man, 
And  in  conclusion  mar  them.     Nature's  thn-ads. 
Fine  passing  1  bought,  e'en  in  her  coarsest  works, 
Delight  in  agitation,  y<-t  sustain 
The  forc<vthat  agitates  not  unimpair'd  ; 
But,  worn  by  frequent  impulse,  to  the  cause 
Of  their  best  tone  their  desolation  o\\f. 

Thought  cannot  spend  itself,  comparing  still 
The  great  and  little  of  thy  lot,  thy  growth 
From  almost  nullity  into  a  state 
Of  matchless  grandeur,  and  declension  thence, 
Slow,  into  such  magnificent  decay. 
Time  was  when,  settling  on  thy  leaf,  a  fly 
Could  shake  theejyt  thv  rnoj  —  and  tinialia 
When^eTiipestsj£Quld-»ol;.     At  thy  firmest  age 


hadSt'within  thy  bole  solid  contents, 
That  might  have  ribb'd  the  sides  and  plank'd  the  deck 
Of  some  flagg'd  admiral  ;  and  tortuous  arms, 
The  shipwright's  darling  treasure,  didst  present 
To  the  four-quarter'd  winds,  robust  and  bold, 
Warped  into  tough  knee-timber,  many  a  load  !  * 
But  the  axe  spared  thee.     In  those  thriftier  days 
Oaks  fell  not,  hewn  by  thousands,  to  supply 
The  bottomless  demands  of  conflict,  waged 
For  senatorial  honors.     Thus  to  Time 
The  task  was  left  to  whittle  thee  away 
With  his  sly  scythe,  whose  ever-nibbling  edge, 
Noiseless,  an  atom  and  an  atom  more, 


*  Knee-timber  is  found  in  the  crooked  arms  of  oak,  which,  by  reason  of  their  dis- 
tortion, are  easily  adjusted  to  the  angle  formed  where  the  deck  and  the  ship's  sides 
meet.-  " 


482  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Disjoining  from  the  rest,  has,  unobserved, 
Achieved  a  labor,  which  had,  far  and  wide, 
By  man  perform'd,  made  all  the  forest  ring. 

Embowell'd  now,  and  of  thy  ancient  self 
Possessing  naught  but  the  scoop'd  rind,  that  seems 
A  huge  throat  calling  to  the  clouds  for  drink, 
Which  it  would  give  in  rivulets  to  thy  root, 
Thou  temptest  none,  but  rather  much  forbid'st 
The  feller's  toil,  which  thou  could  ill  requite. 
Yet  is  thy  root  sincere,  sound  as  the  rock,      / 
A  quarry  of  stout  spurs,  and  knotted  fangs, 
Which,  crook'd  into  a  thousand  whimsies,  clasp 
The  stubborn  soil,  and  hold  thee  still  erect. 

So  stands  a  kingdom,  whose  foundation  yeT 
Fails  not  in  virtue,  and  in  wisdom  laid, 
Though  all  the  superstructure,  by  the  tooth 
(Pulverized  of  venality,  a  shell 
Jtands  now,  and  semblance  only  of  itself ! 

Thine  arms  have  left  thee.     Winds  have  rent  them  off 
Long  since,  and  roveVs  of  the  forest  wild 
With  bow  and  shaft  have  burnt  them.     Some  have  left 
A  splinter' d  stump  bleach' d  to  a  snowy  white  ; 
And  some  memorial  none  where  once  they  grew. 
Yet  life  still  lingers  in  thee,  and  puts  forth 
Proof  not  contemptible  of  what  she  can, 
Even  where  death  predominates.     The  spring 
Finds  thee  not  less  alive  to  her  sweet  force 
Than  yonder  upstarts  of  the  neighboring  wood, 
So  much  thy  juniors,  who  their  birth  received 
Half  a  millennium  since  the  date  of  thine. 

But  since,  although  well  qualified  by  age 
To  teach,  no  spirit  dwells  in  thee,  nor  voice 
May  be  expected  from  thee,  seated  here 
On  thy  distorted  root,  with  hearers  none, 
Or  prompter,  save  the  scene,  I  will  perform 
Myself  the  oracle,  and  will  discourse 
In  my  own  ear  such  matter  as  I  may. 

One  man  alone,  the  father  of  us  all, 
Drew  rioThis  life  from  woman  ;  never  gazed. 
With  mute  unconsciousness  of  what  he  saw, 
On  all  around  him  ;  learn'd  not  by  degrees, 
Nor  owed  articulation  to  his  ear ; 
But,  moulded  by  his  Maker  into  man 
At  once,  upstood  intelligent,  survey 'd 
All  creatures,  with  precision  understood 
Their  purport,  uses,  properties,  assign'd 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  483 

To  each  his  name  significant,  and,  fill'd 

With  love  and  wisdom,  render'd  back  to  Heaven 

In  praise  harmonious  the  first  air  he  drew. 

He  wasLj^xcused  the  penalties  of  dull 

Minority,.     Xo  tutor  charged  his  hand 

With  the  thought-tracing  quill,  or  task'd  Jiis  mind 

With  problems.     History,  not  wanted  yet, 

Lean'd  on  her  elbow,  watching  Time,  whose  course, 

Eventful,  should  supply  her  with  a  theme.  .  .  . 


<3(/Mj£  0M  w 


EPITAPH  ON  MRS.  M.  HIGGINS,  OF  WESTON. 

LAURELS  may  flourish  round  the  conqueror's  tomb, 
But  happiest  they  who  win  the  world  to  come : 
Believers  have  a  silent  field  to  fight, 
And  their  exploits  are  veil'd  from  human  sight. 
They  in  some  nook,  where  little  known  they  dwell, 
Kneel,  pray  in  faith,  and  rout  the  hosts  of  hell  ; 
Eternal  triumphs  crown  their  toils  divine, 
And  all  those  triumphs,  Mary,  now  are  thine. 


SONNET  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

DEEM  not,  sweet  rose,  that  bloom'st  'midst  many  a  thorn 

Thy  friend,  though  to  a  cloister's  shade  consign'd, 

Can  e'er  forget  the  charms  he  left  behind, 

Or  pass  unheeded  this  auspicious  morn  ! 

In  happier  days  to  brighter  prospects  born, 

Oh  tell  thy  thoughtless  sex,  the  virtuous  mind, 

Like  thee,  Content  in  every  state  may  find, 

And  look  on  Folly's  pageantry  with  scorn  ; 

To  steer  the  nicest  art  betwixt  the  extreme 

Of  idle  mirth,  and  affectation  coy  ; 

To  blend  good  sense  with  elegance  and  ease  ; 

To  bid  Affliction's  eye  no  longer  stream  ; 

Is  thine  ;  best  gift,  the  unfailing  source  of  many  joys, 

The  guide  to  pleasures  which  can  never  cease  ! 


4*4 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  RETIRED  CAT. 

[1791.] 


A  POET'S  cat,*  sedate  and  grave 
As  poet  well  could  wish  to  have, 
Was  much  addicted  to  inquire 
For  nooks  to  which  she  might 

retire, 
And  where,  secure  as  mouse  in 

chink, 
She   might    repose,   or  sit    and 

think. 
I  know   not  where  she   caught 

the  trick, — 
Nature    perhaps    herself    had 

cast  her 

In  such  a  mould  philosophique, 
Or  else  she   learn'd  it  of  her 

master. 
Sometimes      ascending     debon- 

nair, 

An  apple  tree  or  lofty  pear, 
Lodged  with  convenience  in  the 

fork, 
She  watched  the  gardener  at  his 

work; 
Sometimes   her  ease  and  solace 

sought 

In  an  old  empty  watering-pot, 
There,  wanting  nothing,  save  a 

fan, 
To    seem    some  nymph    in  her 

sedan 

Apparell'd  in  exactest  sort, 
Arid  ready  to  be  borne  to  court. 
But  love  of  change  it  seems 

has  place 

Not  only  in  our  wiser  race : 
Oats  also  feel  as  well  as  we, 
That  passion's  force,  and  so  did 

she. 


Her  climbing,  she  began  to  find, 
Exposed   her  too   much   to    the 

wind, 

And  the  old  utensil  of  tin 
Was  cold  and  comfortless  within; 
She  therefore  wish'd,  instead  of 

those, 
Some  place  of  more  serene  re- 

pose, 
Where  neither  cold  might  come, 

nor  air 
Too    rudely   wanton    with    her 

hair. 
And   sought  it  in   the   likeliest 

mode 

Within  her  master's  snug  abode. 
A  drawer,  it  chanced,  at  bot- 
tom lined 

With  linen  of  the  softest  kind, 
With  such  as  merchants  intro- 
duce 

From  India,  for  the  ladies'  use, 
A  drawer    impending    o'er  the 

rest, 

Half  open  in  the  topmost  chest, 
Of  depth  enough   and  none  to 

spare, 

Invited  her  to  slumber  there ; 
Puss  with   delight    beyond   ea- 

pression 
Survey 'd    the    scene   and    took 

possession. 

Recumbent  at  her  ease  ere  long, 
And  lull'd  by  her  own  humdrum 

song, 

She  left  the  cares  of  life  behind , 
And  slept  as  she  would  sleep 

her  last, 


*  His  own  cat.  Cowper  had  many  pets.  Lady  Hesketh  enumerates  live  rabbits, 
three  hares,  two  guinea-pigs,  a  magpie,  a  jay,  a  star! ing,  two  goldfinches,  two  canarie^ 
and  two  doga. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


485 


When  in  came,  housewifely  in- 
clined, 
The  chambermaid,  and  shut  it 

fast, 

By  no  malignity  impell'd, 
But    all    unconscious  whom   it 

held. 
Awaken'd  by  the  shock,  cried 

Puss, 

*'  Was  ever  cat  attended  thus  ! 
The  open  drawer  was  left,  I  see, 
Merely  to  prove  a  nest  for  me. 
For  soon  as  I  was  well  composed, 
Then  came  the  maid  and  it  was 

closed. 
How  smooth  these  'kerchiefs  and 

how  sweet ! 

Oh  what  a  delicate  retreat ! 
I  will  resign  myself  to  rest 
Till  Sol  declining  in  the  west 
Shall  call  to  supper,  when,  110 

doubt, 

Susan  will  come  and  let  me  out." 
The   evening    came,  the    sun 

descended, 

And   Puss   remain'd   still    unat- 
tended. 

The  night  roll'd  tardily  away, 
(With    her  indeed   'twas  never 

day;) 
The  sprightly  morn  her  course 

renew'd, 

The  evening  gray  again  ensued, 
And   Puss   came   into   mind  no 

more 

Than  if  entomb'd  the  day  before. 
With      hunger      pinch'd,      and 

pinch'd  for  room, 
She  now  presaged  approaching 

doom, 
Nor    slept    a    single     wink,    or 

purr'd, 

Conscious  of  jeopardy  iiicurr'd. 
That    night,   by    chance,   the 

poet  watching, 


Heard  an  inexplicable  scratch 

ing; 

His  noble  heart  went  pit-a-pat, 
And  to  himself  he  said — "  What's 

that?' 

He  drew  the  curtain  at  his  side, 
And  forth  he  peep'd,  but  nothing 

spied. 

Yet,  by  his  ear  directed,  guess'd 
Something    imprisoned    in    the 

chest, 

And,  doubtful  what,  with  pru- 
dent care 
Resolved     it     should     continue 

there. 
At  length,  a  voice  which  well  he 

knew, 

A  long  and  melancholy  mew, 
Saluting  his  poetic  ears, 
Consoled  him,  and  dispell'd  his 

fears : 

He  left  his  bed,  he  trod  the  floor, 
He  'g;m  in  haste  the  drawers  ex- 
plore, 
The   lowest   first,    and    witnout 

stop 

The  rest  in  order  to  the  top. 
For  'tis  a  truth  well  known  to 

most, 

That  whatsoever  thing  is  lost, 
We  seek  it,  ere  it  come  to  light, 
In  every  cranny  but  the  right. 
Forth  skipp'd  the  cat,  not  ncr*> 

replete 

As  erst  with  airy  self-conceit. 
Nor  in  her  own  fond  appreheL 

sion 
A  theme  for  all  the  world's  atten 

tion, 

But  modest,  sober,  cured  of  all 
Her  notions  hyperbolical, 
And  wishing  for  a  place  of  rest, 
Anything  rather  than  a  chest. 
Then  stepp'd  the  poet  into  bed 
With  this  reflection  in  his  head  • 


486 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MORAL. 

Beware  of  too  sublime  a  sense 
Of  your  own  worth  and  conse- 
quence, [great 
The  man  who  dreams  himself  so 
And    his     importance    of    such 
weight, 


That  all  around  in  all    that's 

done, 
Must   move   and   act   for   him 

alone, 
Will  learn  in  school  of  tribute, 

tion 
Th6  folly  of  his  expectation, 


ON  THE  NEGLECT  OF  HOMER. 

COULD  Homer  come  himself,  distress'd  and  poor, 
And  tune  his  harp  at  Rhedycina's  *  door, 
The  rich  old  vixen  would  exclaim,  (I  fear,) 
" Begone!  no  tramper  gets  a  farthing  here." 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  HEARD  SING  ON  NEW-YEAR'S  DAT. 


WHENCE  is  it,   that  amazed  I 

hear, 

From  yonder  wither' d  spray, 
This  foremost  morn  of  all  the 

year, 
The  melody  of  May  ? 

And  why,  since  thousands  would 
be  proud 

Of  such  a  favor  shown, 
Am  I  selected  from  the  crowd, 

To  witness  it  alone  ? 

• 

ging'st  thou,  sweet  Philomel,  to 

me, 

For  that  I  also  long 
Have  practised  in  the  groves  like 

thee, 
Though  not  like  thee  in  song? 


Or    sing'st    thou    rather    under 
force 

Of  some  divine  command, 
Commission'd  to  presage  a  course 

Of  happier  days  at  hand  ? 

Thrice  welcome  then  !  for  many 

a  long 

And  joyless  year  have  I. 
As   thou   to-day,  put  forth   my 

song, 
Beneath  a  wintry  sky. 

But  thee   no  wintry  skies  can 
harm, 

Who  only  need'st  to  sing 
To  make  even  January  charm, 

And  every  season  Spring. 


*  Rhedycina— a  Latinized  form  of  the  W«lsh  name  for  Oxford. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


487 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM 

OF  MISS  PATTY  MORE'g,  SISTER  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 

(February,  1792.) 

IN  vain  to  live  from  age  to  age     1 1  write  my  name  in  Patty's  page, 
While  modern  bards  endeavor,  I      And  gain  my  point  forever. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FREE  BUT  TAME  REDBREAST, 

A  FAVORITE  OF  MISS  SALLY  HURDIS. 

(March.  1792.) 


THESE  are  not  dewdrops,  these 
are  tears, 

And  tears  by  Sally  shed, 
For  absent  Robin,  who  she  fears 

With  too  much  cause,  is  dead. 

One  morn  he  came   not  to   her 

hand 

As  he  was  wont  to  come, 
And,  on  her  finger  perch'd,   to 

stand 
Picking  his  breakfast  crumb. 

Alarm'd.  she  call'd  him  and  per- 

plex'd 

She  sought  him,  but  in  vain  ; 
That  day  he  came  not,  nor  the 

next, 
Nor  ever  came  again. 


She  therefore  raised  him  here  a 

tomb, 

Though  where  he  fell  or  how, 
None  knows,   so  secret  was  his 

doom, 
Nor  where  he  moulders  now. 

Had   half  a   score   of  coxcombs 

died 

In  social  Robin's  stead, 
Poor  Sally's  tears  had  soon  been 

dried, 
Or  haply  never  shed. 

But  Bob  was  neither  rudely  bold, 

Nor  spiritlessly  tame ; 
Nor  was,  like  theirs,  his  bosom 
cold, 

But  always  in  a  flame. 


ON  A  MISTAKE  IN  THE  TRANSLATION  OF  HOMER. 


COWPER  had  sinn'd  with  some 
excuse, 

If,  bound  in  rhyming  tethers, 
He  had  committed  this  abuse 

Of  changing  ewes  for  wethers. 


But  male  for  female  is  a  trope, 
A  rather  bold  misnomer, 

That  would  have  startled  even 

Pope, 
When  he  translated  Homer. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


LINES  ON  A  LATE  THEFT.* 


SWEET    nymph,     who    art     it 
seems,  accused 

Of  stealing  George's  pen, 
Use  it  thyself,  and  having  used, 

E'en  give  it  him  again  ; 


The  plume  of  his  that  has   one 
scrap 

Of  thy  good  sense  expressed, 
Will  be  a  feather  in  his  cap 

Worth  more  than  all  his  crest. 


SONNET  TO  WILLIAM  WILBERFORCE,  ESQ. 

(April,  1792.) 

THY  country.  Wilberforce,  with  just  disdain. 
Hears  thee  by  cruel  men  and  impious  call'd 
Fanatic,  for  thy  zeal  to  loose  the  inthrall'd 

Prom  exile,  public  sale,  and  slavery's  chain. 

Friend  of  the  poor,  the  wrong'd,  the  fetter-gall'd, 

Fear  not  lest  labor  such  as  thine  be  vain. 

Thou  hast  achieved  a  part ;  hast  gain'd  the  ear 
Of  Britain's  senate  to  thy  glorious  cause  ; 
Hope  smiles,  joy  springs,  and,  though  cold  caution  pause 

And  weave  delay,  the  better  hour  is  near 

That  shall  remunerate  thy  toils  severe 
By  peace  for  Afric,  fenced  with  British  laws. 

Enjoy  what  thou  hast  won,  esteem  and  love 
P»om  all  the  just  on  earth,  and  all  the  blest  above. 


TO  DR.  AUSTEN,  OF  CECIL  STREET,  LONDON, 

(May,  1792.) 

AUSTEN  I  accept  a  grateful  verse  from  me, 
The  poet's  treasure,  no  inglorious  fee. 
Loved  by  the  muses,  thy  ingenious  mind 
Pleasing  requital  in  my  verse  may  find  ; 
Verse  oft  has  dash'd  the  scythe  of  Time  aside, 
Immortalizing  names  which  else  had  died : 

*  Contained  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  King,  dated  8th  March,  1792. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  489 


And  oh !  could  I  command  the  glittering  wealth 
With  which  sick  kings  are  glad  to  purchase  health  ; 
Yet,  if  extensive  fame,  and  sure  to  live, 
Were  in  the  power  of  verse  like  mine  to  give, 
I  would  not  recompense  his  art  with  less, 
Who,  giving  Mary*  health,  heals  my  distress. 

Friend  of  my  friend  !  I  love  thee,  though  unknown. 
And  boldly  call  thee,  being  his,  my  own. 


TO  WARREN  HASTINGS,  ESQ. 

BY  AN  OLD  SCHOOLFELLOW  OF  HIS  AT  WESTMINSTER. 

HASTINGS  I  I  knew  thee  young,  and  of  a  mind 
While  young,  humane,  conversable,  and  kind  ; 
Nor  can  I  well  believe  thee,  gentle  then, 
Now  grown  a  villain,  and  the  worst  of  men : 
But  rather  some  suspect,  who  have  oppress'd 
And  worried  thee,  as  not  themselves  the  best. 


-* — 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  DR.  DARWIN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BOTANIC  GARDEN." 


Two  poets,  f  (poets  by  report 

Not  oft  so  well  agree, ) 
Sweet  harmonist  of  Flora's  court! 

Conspire  to  honor  thee. 

They  best  can  judge  the  poet's 

worth, 
Who     oft     themselves     have 

known 

The  pangs  of  a  poetic  birth 
By  labors  of  their  own. 

We  thereto*-  .•  pleased  extol   thy 


No  envy  mingles  with  our  praise; 
Though,  could  our  hearts  re- 
pine 
I  At  any  poet's  happier  lays, 

They    would — they    must    at 
thine. 

But  we,  in  mutual  bondage  knit 
Of  friendship's  closest  tie, 

Can  gaze  on  even  Darwin's  wit 
With  an  unjaundiced  eye  : 

And  deem  the  bard,  whoe'er  he  be, 


song,  And  howsoever  known, 

Though  various  yet  complete,  |  Who  would  not  twine  a  wreath 
Rich  in  embellishment,  as  strong !         for  thee, 

And  learned  as  'tis  sweet.  1      Unworthy  of  his  own. 

*  Mrs.  Unwin.    Dr.  Austen  was  a  friend  of  Hayley's. 

t  Himself  and  Hayley,  a  poem  by  whom  accompanied  these  lines. 


49° 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


CATHARINA. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MISS  STAPLETON.* 


SHE  came — she  is  gone — we  have 
met — 

And  meet  perhaps  never  again; 
The  sun  of  that  moment  is  set, 

And    seems   to  have   risen  iu 

vain. 
Cathariria  has  fled  like  a  dream, 

(So  vanishes  pleasure,  alas  1) 
But  has  left  a  regret  and  esteem 

That  will  not  so  suddenly  pass. 

The  last  evening  ramble  we  made, 

Catharina,  Maria,  and  I, 
Our  progress  was  often  delay'd 
By  the   nightingale  warbling 

nigh. 

We  paused  under  many  a  tree, 
And   much  she   was   charm'd 

with  a  tone, 

Less  sweet  to  Maria  and  me, 
Who  so   lately  had   witness' d 
her  own. 

My  numbers  that  day  she  had 
.      sung, 

And  gave  them  a  grace  so  di- 
vine, 

As  only  her  musical  tongue 
Could  infuse  into  numbers  of 

mine. 

The  longer  I  heard,  I  esteem'd 
The   work   of  my   fancy    the 

more, 

And  e'en  to  myself  never  seem'd 
So  tuneful  a  poet  before. 

Though  the  pleasures  of  London 

exceed 
In    number  the  days  of  the 

year, 

Catharina,  did  nothing  impede, 
Would    feel    herself    happier 
here ; 


For  the   close-woven   arches  ol 

limes  [know, 

On  the   banks  of  our  river,  I 

Are  sweeter  to  her  many  times 

Than  aught  that  the  city  can 

show. 

So    it    is,   when    the    mind    is 

endued  [above, 

With  a  well-judging  taste  from 

Then,    whether    embellish'd   or 

rude, 

'Tis  nature  alone  that  we  love. 
The  achievements  of  art    may 

amuse, 

May  even  our  wonder  excite, 
But    groves,   hills,   and  valleyi 

diffuse 
A  lasting,  a  sacred  delight. 

Since  then  in  the  rural  recess 

Catharina  alone  can  rejoice, 
May  i"  still  be  her  lot  to  possess 

The  scene  of  her  sensible  choicel 
To  inhabit  a  mansion  remote 

From    the    clatter    of    street- 
pacing  steeds, 
And  by  Philomel's  annual  note 

To  measure  the   life  that  she 
leads. 

With  her  book,  and  her  voice, 

and  her  lyre, 

To  wing  all  her  moments  at 

home  ;  [inspire, 

And  with  scenes  that  new  rapture 

As  oft  as  it  suits  her  to  roam  ; 

She  will  have  just  the  life  she 

prefers, 

With  little  to  hope  or  to  fear, 
And  ours  would  be  pleasant  as 

hers, 

Might  we  view  her  enjoying  it 
here. 


*  Afterwards  Lady  Throckmorton. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


491 


THE  SECOND  PART. 

ON  HER  MARRIAGE  TO  GEORGE  THROCKMORTON  COURTENAY,*  ESQ. 

(June,  1792.) 


BELIEVE  it  or  not,  as  you  clmse, 

The  doctrine  is  certainly  true, 
That  the  future  is  known  to  the 
muse, 

And  poets  are  oracles  too. 
I  did  but  express  a  desire 

To  see  Catharina  at  home, 
At  the  side  of  my  friend  George's 
fire, 

And  lo  I — she  is  actually  come  1 

Such  prophecy  some  may  despise, 
But  the  wish   of  a   poet   and 

friend 
Perhaps    is    approved    in    the 

skies, 
And   therefore  attains  to  its 

end. 
'Twas  a  wish  that  flew  ardently 

forth 
From     a    bosom     effectually 

warm'd 
With  the  talents,  the  graces,  and 

worth 

Of  the  person  for  whom  it  was 
form'd. 


Mariaf  would  leave  us,  I  knew, 
To  the  grief  and  regret  of  us 

all. 

But  less  to  our  grief,  could  we 

view  [Hall. 

Catharina   the   Queen   of  the 

And  therefore  1  wish'd  as  I  did, 

And   therefore   this  union   of 

hands, 

Not  a  whisper  was  heard  to  for- 
bid, 

But    all    cry,    Ainen — to   the 
banns. 

Since  therefore  I  seem  to  incur 

No  danger  of  wishing  in  vain, 
When  making  good  wishes  for 

her, 

I  will  e'en  to  my  wishes  again: 
With  one  I  have  made  her  a 

wife, 

And  now  I  will  try  with   an- 
other, 
Which   I   cannot    suppress    for 

my  life, — 

How  soon  I  can  make  her  a 
mother. 


SONNET, 

ADDRESSED   TO   WILLIAM  HAYLEY,   ESQ.J 

(June,   1792.) 

HAYLEY — thy  tenderness  fraternal  shown 
In  our  first  interview,  delightful  guest  I 
To  Mary,  and  me  for  her  dear  sake  distress'd, 

Such  as  it  is  has  made  my  heart  thy  own, 

*  Brother  of  Sir  John  Throckmorton,  to  whose  baronetcy  he  succeeded. 

t  Lady  Throckmorton. . 

$  Author  of  the  "  Triumphs  of  Temper  "  and  other  now  forgotten  poems. 


492  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Though  heedless  now  of  new  engagements  grown ; 
For  threescore  winters  make  a  wintry  breast, 
And  I  had  purposed  ne'er  to  go  in  quest 

Of  friendship  more,  except  with  God  alone. 
But  thou  hast  won  me  ;  nor  is  God  my  foe, 

Who,  ere  this  last  afflictive  scene  began, 
Sent  thee  to  mitigate  the  dreadful  blow, 
My  brother,  by  whose  sympathy  I  know 

Thy  true  deserts  infallibly  to  scan, 

Not  more  to  admire  the  Bard  than  love  the  Man. 


EPITAPH  ON  FOP, 

A  DOG  BELONGING  TO  LADY    THROCKMORTON. 

(August,  1792.) 

THOUGH  once  a  puppy,  and  though  Fop  by  name, 

Here  moulders  one  whose  bones  some  honor  claim  ; 

No  sycophant,  although  of  spaniel  race, 

And  though  no  hound,  a  martyr  to  the  chase. 

Ye  squirrels,  rabbits,  leverets,  rejoice ! 

Your  haunts  no  longer  echo  to  his  voice  ; 

This  record  of  his  fate  exulting  view, 

He  died  worn  out  with  vain  pursuit  of  you. 

"  Yes," — the  indignant  shade  of  Fop  replies— 
"  And  worn  with  vain  pursuit,  man  also  dies." 


SONNET  TO  GEORGE  ROMNEY,  ESQ., 

ON   HIS   PICTURE   OF   ME   IN   CRAYON, 

Drawn  at  Eartham  in  the  61st  year  qfmy  age,  and  in  the  months  qf  August 

and  September,  1792. 

(October,  1792.) 

ROMNEY,  expert  infallibly  to  trace, 

On  chart  or  canvas,  not  the  form  alone 
And  semblance,  but  however  faintly  shown 

The  mind's  impression  too  on  every  face ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  493 

With  strokes  that  time  ought  never  to  erase, 
Thou  hast  so  pencil  I'd  mine,  that  though  I  own 
The  subject  worthless,  I  have  never  known 

The  artist  shining  with  superioi  grace. 

But  this  I  mark, — that  symptoms  none  of  woe 

In  thy  incomparable  work  appear. 
Well — I  am  satisfied  it  should  be  so, 

Since,  on  maturer  thought,  the  cause  is  clear ; 

For  in  my  looks  what  sorrow  couldst  thou  see 
When  I  was  Hayley's  guest,  and  sat  to  thee? 


THANKS  FOR  A  GIFT  OF  PHEASANTS. 

IN  Copeman's  ear  this  truth  let  Echo  tell : 
11  Immortal  bards  like  mortal  pheasants  well," 
And  when  his  clerkship's  out,  I  wish  him  herds 
Of  golden  clients,  for  his  golden  birds. 


AN  EPITAPH^ 

ON   A   POINTER  BELONGING   TO   SIR  JOHN   THROCKMORTGN. 

HERE  lies  one  who  never  drew 
Blood  himself,  yet  many  slew  ; 
Gave  the  gun  its  aim,  and  figure 
Made  in  field,  yet  ne'er  pull'd  trigger. 
Arm'd  men  have  gladly  made 
Him  their  guide,  and  him  obey'd ; 
At  his  signified  desire 
Would  advance,  present,  and  fire. 
Stout  he  was,  and  large  of  limb, 
Scores  have  fled  at  sight  of  him  ; 
And  to  all  this  fame  he  rose 
Only  following  his  nose. 
Neptune  was  he  call'd  ;  not  he 
Who  controls  the  boisterous  sea, 
But  of  happier  command, 
Neptune  of  the  furrow'd  land  ; 
And,  your  wonder  vain  to  shorten, 
Pointer  to  Sir  John  Throckmorton. 


494  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

ON  RECEIVING  HAYLEY'S  PICTURE. 

(January,  1793.) 

IN  language  warm  as  could  be  breath' d  or  penn'd 
Thy  picture  speaks  the  original,  my  friend, 
Not  by  those  looks  that  indicate  thy  mind, 
They  only  speak  thee  friend  of  all  mankind ; 
Expression  here  more  soothing  still  I  see, 
That  friend  of  all  a  partial  friend  to  me. 


EPITAPH  ON  MR.  CHESTER,  OF  CHICHELEY. 

(April,  1793.) 

TEARS  flow   and  cease  not,  where  the  good  man  lies, 

Till  all  who  knew  him  follow  to  the  skies. 

Tears  therefore  fall  where  Chester's  ashes  sleep  ; 

Him,  wife,  friends,  brothers,  children,  servants  weep  ; — 

And  justly — few  shall  ever  him  transcend 

As  husband,  parent,  brother,  master,  friend. 


TO  MY  COUSIN  ANNE  BODHAM, 

ON   RECEIVING    FROM  HER  A  NETWORK  PURSE  MADE  BY  HERSELF 

(May,  1793.) 

MY  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore, 
When  I  was  young,  and  thou  no  more 

Than  plaything  for  a  nurse, 
1  danced  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 
A  kitten  both  in  size  and  glee, — 

I  thank  thee  for  my  purse. 
Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here  ; 
But  not  of  love  ; — that  gem's  too  dear 

For  richest  rogues  to  win  it ; 
I,  therefore,  as  a  proof  of  love, 
Esteem  thy  present  far  above 

The  best  things  kept  within  it. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  495 

TO  MRS.  UNWIN. 

(May,  1793.) 

MART  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 

Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have  fei^n'd  they  drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 
That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  niy  wings, 

I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honor  due, 

In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 
But  thou  hast  little  need.  There  is  a  book 

By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright ; 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine, 

And,  since  thou  owii'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 


TO  JOHN  JOHNSON,*  ESQ., 

ON  HIS  PRESENTING  MK  WITH  AN  ANTIQUE  BUST  OP  HOMER. 

(May,  1793.) 

KINSMAN  beloved,  and  as  a  son,  by  me  ! 
When  I  behold  the  fruit  of  thy  regard, 

The  sculptured  form  of  my  old  favorite  bard, 
I  reverence  feel  for  him,  and  love  for  thee. 
Joy  too  and  grief.     Much  joy  that  there  should  be, 

Wise  men  and  learn'd,  who  grudge  not  to  reward 

With  some  applause  my  bold  attempt  and  hard, 
Which  others  scorn  :  critics  by  courtesy. 
The  grief  is  this,  that,  sunk  in  Homer's  mine, 

I  lose  my  precious  years  now  soon  to  fail, 
Handling  his  gold,  which.,  howsoe'er  it  shine, 

Proves  dross  when  balanced  in  the  Christian  scale* 
Be  wiser  thou  ; — like  our  forefather  Donne, 
Seek  heavenly  wealth,  and  work  for  God  alone. 

*  The  grandson  of  Cowper's  uucle.    He  cheered  the  last  years  of  the  poet. 


496  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


INSCRIBED  ON  THE  BUST  OF  HOMER 

PRESENTED   TO   COWPER   BY   MR.   JOHN  JOHNSON,    AND   NOW 
IN   THE   WILDERNESS   AT   WESTON. 


Elxova  T££  rauTTjv  ;  —  xXorov  avspoq  dvop 

a<f>6(.rov  aiev  ££££ 


THE  sculptor  ?  —  nameless,  though  once  dear  to  fame  ; 
But  This  Man  bears  an  everlasting  name. 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

ON  HIS  ARRIVING  AT   CAMBRIDGE  WET  WHEN  NO  RAIN 

HAD   FALLEN   THERE. 

IF  Gideon's  fleece,  which  drench'd  with  dew  he  found, 
While  moisture  none  refresh'd  the  herbs  around, 
Might  fitly  represent  the  church,  endow'd 
With  heavenly  gifts  to  heathens  not  allow'd ; 
In  pledge,  perhaps,  of  favors  from  on  high, 
Thy  locks  were  wet  when  others'  locks  were  dry. 
Heaven  grant  us  half  the  omen,— may  we  see 
Not  drought  on  others,  but  much  dew  on  thee  1 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  HERMITAGE  IN  THE 
AUTHOR'S  GARDEN. 

(May,  1793.) 

THIS  cabin,  Mary,  in  my  sight  appears 
Built  as  it  has  been  in  our  waning  yeara 
A  rest  afforded  to  our  weary  feet, 
Preliminary  to — the  last  retreat. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  49; 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  MOSS-HOUSE  IN  THE 
SHRUBBERY  AT  WESTON. 

HERE,  free  from  riot's  hated  noise, 
Be  mine,  the  calmer,  purer  joys 

A  friend  or  book  bestows  ; 
Far  from  the  storms  that  shake  the  great, 
Contentment's  gale  shall  fan  my  seat, 

And  sweeten  my  repose. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  GARDEN  SHED, 

BUILT  IN   A   FAR   MORE  EXPENSIVE    WAY    THAN  WAS    DESIGNED. 

BEWARE  of  building !  I  intended 

Rough  logs  and  thatch,  and  thus  it  ended. 


EPIGRAM  ON  THE  SAME  CIRCUMSTANCE.* 

INSTEAD  of  a  pound  or  two,  spending  a  mint, 
Must  serve  me  at  least,  I  believe,  with  a  liint, 
That  building  and  building  a  man  may  be  driven 
At  last  out  of  doors,  and  have  110  house  to  live  in. 


ON  ABBOTT'S  PORTRAIT  OF  HIM ; 

ADDRESSED   TO    HAYLEY. 

(July  15,  1792.) 

ABBOTT  is  painting  me  so  true, 
That  (trust  me)  you  would  stare, 

And  hardly  know  at  the  first  view, 
If  I  were  here  or  there. 

*  Cowper  thus  explains  the  inscription  in  a  letter  to  Hayley,  July  24,  17:>3,— "  I  said 
to  my  bam  :  '  Sam.  build  me  a  shed  in  the  garden,  with  anything  that  you  can  find,  and 
make  it  rude  and  rough,  like  one  of  those  at  Eartham.'  '  Yes,  sir,'  says  Sam  ;  and 
straightway  laying  his  own  noddle,  and  the  carpenter's  noddle  together,  has  built  m<j  a 
thing  fat  for  Stow  Gardens." 


498  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  TOUR  AGES. 

(A   BRIEF  FRAGMENT   OF  AN   EXTENSIVE  PROJECTED  POEM.) 

"  I  COULD  be  well  content,  allow'd  the  use 
Of  past  experience,  and  the  wisdom  glean'd 
From  worn-out  follies,  now  acknowledged  such, 
To  recommence  life's  trial,  in  the  hope 
Of  fewer  errors  on  a  second  proof  !  ' 

Thus  while  gray  evening  lull'd  the  wind,  and  call'd 
Fresh  odors  from  the  shrubbery  at  my  side, 
Taking  my  lonely  winding  walk,  I  mused, 
And  held  accustom' d  conference  with  my  heart ; 
When  from  within  it  thus  a  voice  replied  : 

"  Couldst  thpu  in  truth  ?  and  art  thou  taught  at  length 
This  wisdom,  and  but  this,  from  all  the  past  ? 
Is  not  the  pardon  of  thy  long  arrear, 
Time  wasted,  violated  laws,  abuse 
Of  talents,  judgment,  mercies,  better  far 
Than  opportunity  vouchsaf'd  to  err 
With  less  excuse,  and,  haply,  worse  effect?" 

I  heard,  and  acquiesced  :  then  to  and  fro 
Oft  pacing,  as  the  mariner  his  decks, 
My  gravelly  bounds,  from  self  to  human  kind 
I  pass'd,  and  next  consider'd,  what  is  man  ? 
Knows  he  his  origin  ?    Can  he  ascend 
By  reminiscence  to  his  earliest  date  ? 
Slept  he  in  Adam  ?     And  in  those  from  him 
'Through  numerous  generations,  till  he  found 
At  length  his  destined  moment  to  be  born  ? 
Or  was  he  not,  till  fashion'd  in  the  womb  ? 
Deep  mysteries  both  !  which  schoolmen  must  have  toil'd 
To  unriddle,  and  have  left  them  mysteries  still. 

It  is  an  evil  incident  to  man, 
And  of  the  worst,  that  unexplored  he  leaves 
Truths  useful  and  attainable  with  ease, 
To  search  forbidden  deeps,  where  mystery  lies 
Not  to  be  solved,  and  useless,  if  it  might. 
Mysteries  are  food  for  angels  ;  they  digest 
With  ease,  and  find  them  nutriment ;  but  man, 
While  yet  he  dwells  below,  must  stoop  to  glean 

His  manna  from  the  ground,  or  starve  and  die. 
******* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  499 

ON  A  PLANT  OF  VIRGIN'S  BOWER, 

DESIGNED   TO   COVER   A   GARDEN -SEAT. 

THRIVE,  gentle  plant !  and  weave  a  bower 

For  Mary  *  and  for  me, 
And  deck  with  many  a  splendid  flower, 

Thy  foliage  large  and  free. 

Thou  cam'st  from  Eartham,  and  wilt  shade, 

(If  truly  I  divine, ) 
Some  future  day  the  illustrious  head 

Of  him  who  made  thee  mine. 

Should  Daphne  show  a  jealous  frown, 

And  Envy  seize  the  bay, 
Affirming  none  so  fit  to  crown 

Such  honor 'd  brows  as  they, 

Thy  cause  with  zeal  we  shall  defend, 

And  with  convincing  power  ; 
For  why  should  not  the  Virgin's  friend 

Be  crown'd  with  Virgin's  Bower  ? 


TO  WILLIAM  HAYLEY,  ESQ. 

(June,  1793.) 

DEAR  architect  of  fine  chateaux  in  air, 
Worthier  to  stand  forever,  if  they  could, 
Than  any  built  of  stone,  or  yet  of  wood, 

For  back  of  royal  elephant  to  bear  ; 

Oh  for  permission  from  the  skies  to  share, 
Much  to  my  own,  though  little  to  thy  good, 
With  thee  (not  subject  to  the  jealous  mood  !) 

A  partnership  of  literary  ware  !f 

*  Mrs.  TTnwin. 

Eayley   bad  proposed  to  share  some  literary  work  (it  is  not  known  what)  witfi 


Cowper. 


Soo  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

But  I  am  bankrupt  now  ;  and  doomed  henceforth 
To  drudge,  in  descant  dry,  on  others'  lays  ; 

Bards,  I  acknowledge,  of  unequall'd  worth  ! 
But  what  is  commentator's  happiest  praise  ? 

That  he  has  furnish'd  lights  for  other  eyes, 
Which  they  who  need  them  use,  and  then  despise. 


A  TALE,  FOUNDED  ON  FACT.* 

(June,  1793.) 

IN  Scotland's  realm,  where  trees  are  few, 

Nor  even  shrubs  abound ; 
But  where,  however  bleak  the  view, 

Some  better  things  are  found  ; 

For  husband  there  and  wife  may  boast 

Then  union  undefiled, 
And  false  orieb  are  as  rare  almost 

As  hedgerows  in  the  wild ; 

In  Scotland's  realm  forlorn  and  bare 

The  history  chanced  of  late — 
The  history  of  a  wedded  pair, 

A  chaffinch  and  his  mate. 

The  spring  drew  near,  each  felt  a  breast 

With  genial  instinct  fill'd  ; 
They  pair'd,  and  would  have  built  a  nest 

But  found  not  where  to  build. 

The  heaths  uncover'd  and  the  moors 

Except  with  snow  and  sleet, 
Sea-beaten  rocks  and  naked  shores 

Could  yield  them  no  retreat. 

Long  time  a  breeding-place  they  sought, 
Till  both  grew  vexed  arid  tired  ; 

At  length  a  ship  arriving  brought 
The  good  so  long  desired. 

*  This  tale  is  founded  on  an  article  which  appeared  in  the  Buckinghamshire 
Herald,  Saturday,  June  I,  1792  :— "  Glasgow,  May  23.  In  a  block,  or  pulley,  near  the 
head  of  the  mast  of  a  gabbert,  now  lying  at  the  Broomielaw,  there  is  a  chaffinch's  nest 
and  four  eggs.  The  nest  was  built  while  the  vessel  lay  at  Greenock,  and  was  fol- 
lowed hither  by  both  birds.  Though  the  block  is  occasionally  lowered  for  the  inspec- 
tion of  the  curious,  the  birds  have  not  forsaken  the  nest.  The  cock,  however,  visits  the 
nest  but  seldom,  while  the  hen  never  leaves  it  but  when  she  descends  to  the  hull  for 
food." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  501 

A  ship  ? — could  such  a  restless  thing 

Afford  them  place  of  rest  ? 
Or  was  the  merchant  charged  to  bring 

The  homeless  birds  a  nest  ? 

Hush. ! — silent  hearers  profit  most — 

This  racer  of  the  sea 
Proved  kinder  to  them  than  the  coast, 

It  served  them  with  a  tree. 

But  such  a  tree  !  'twas  shaven  deal, 

The  tree  they  call  a  mast, 
And  had  a  hollow  with  a  wheel 

Through  which  the  tackle  pass'd. 

Within  that  cavity  aloft 

Their  roofless  home  they  fix'd, 
Formed  with  materials  neat  and  soft, 

Bents,  wool,  and  feathers  mix'd. 

Four  ivory  eggs  soon  pave  its  floor, 

With  russet  specks  bedight ; 
The  vessel  weighs,  forsakes  the  shore, 

And  lessens  to  the  sight. 

The  mother-bird  is  gone  to  sea, 

As  she  had  changed  her  kind  ; 
But  goes  the  male  ?     Far  wiser,  he 

Is  doubtless  left  behind. 

No — soon  as  from  a  shore  he  saw 

The  winged  mansion  move, 
He  flew  to  reach  it,  by  a  law 

Of  never-failing  love ; 

Then  perching  at  his  consort's  side, 

Was  quickly  borne  along, 
The  billows  and  the  blast  defied, 

And  cheer 'd  her  with  a  song. 

The  seaman  with  sincere  delight 

His  feather1  d  shipmates  eyes, 
Scarce  less  exulting  in  the  sight 

Than  when  he  tows  a  prize. 

For  seamen  much  believe  in  signs, 

And  from  a  chance  so  new 
Each  some  approaching  good  divines, 

And  may  his  hopes  be  true ! 


502  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Hail,  honor 'd  land  !  a  desert  where 
Not  even  birds  can  hide, 

Yet  parent  of  this  loving  pair 
Whom  nothing  could  divide. 

And  ye  who,  rather  than  resign 

Your  matrimonial  plan, 
Were  not  afraid  to  plough  the  brine 

In  company  with  man  ; 

For  whose  lean  country  much  disdain 
We  English  often  show  ; 

Yet  from  a  richer  nothing  gain 
But  wantonness  and  woe  ; 

Be  it  your  fortune  year  by  year, 
The  same  resource  to  prove, 

And  may  ye  sometimes  landing  here, 
Instruct  us  how  to  love  I 


ON  A  SPANIEL,  CALLED  BEAU,  KILLING  A  YOUNG 

BIRD. 

(July,  1793.) 

A  SPANIEL,  Beau,  that  fares  like  you, 

Well  fed,  and  at  his  ease, 
Should  wiser  be  than  to  pursue 

Each  trifle  that  he  sees. 

But  you  have  kilPd  a  tiny  bird, 

Which  flew  not  till  to-day, 
Against  my  orders,  whom  you  heard 

Forbidding  you  the  prey. 

Nor  did  you  kill  that  you  might  eat, 

And  ease  a  doggish  pain, 
For  him,  though  chased  with  furious  heat, 

You  left  where  he  was  slain. 

Nor  was  he  of  the  thievish  sort, 

Or  one  whom  blood  allures, 
But  innocent  was  all  his  sport 

Whom  you  have  torn  for  yours. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  503 

My  dog  !  what  remedy  remains, 

Since,  teach  you  all  I  can, 
I  see  you,  after  all  my  pains, 

So  much  resemble  man  ? 


BEAU'S  REPLY. 

SIR,  when  I  flew  to  seize  the  bird 
In  spite  of  your  command, 

A  louder  voice  than  yours  I  heard, 
And  harder  to  withstand. 

You  cried — Forbear  ! — but  in  my  breast 
A  mightier  cried — Proceed  !- 

'Twas  Nature,  Sir,  whose  strong  behest 
ImpelFd  me  to  the  deed. 

Yet  much  as  Nature  I  respect, 

I  ventured  once  to  break 
(As  you  perhaps  may  recollect) 

Her  precept  for  your  sake  ; 

And  when  your  linnet  on  a  day, 

Passing  his  prison  door, 
Had  flutter'd  all  his  strength  away. 

And  panting  press'd  the  floor. 

Well  knowing  him  a  sacred  thing, 
Not  destined  to  my  tooth, 

I  only  kiss'd  his  ruffled  wing, 

And  licked  the  feathers  smooth. 

Let  my  obedience  then  excuse 

My  disobedience  now, 
Nor  some  reproof  yourself  refuse 

From  your  aggrieved  bow-wow: 

If  killing  birds  be  such  a  crime, 

(Which  I  can  hardly  see,) 
What  think  you,  Sir,  of  killing  Time 

With  verse  address'd  to  me  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TO  THE  SPANISH  ADMIRAL,  COUNT  GRAVINA, 

ON    HIS    TRANSLATING    THE    AUTHOR'S  SONG    ON    A    ROSE    INTO 

ITALIAN  VERSE. 

(1793.) 

MY  Rose,  Gravina,  blooms  anew, 

And  steep'd  not  now  in  rain, 
But  in  Castilian  streams  by  you, 

Will  never  fade  again. 


TO  MARY.* 

—  (1793.) 

THE  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; — 
Ah  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 

My  Mary  4 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow  ; — 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low. 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 

My  Mary ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  would' st  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter'd  in  a  dream : 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  Jhe  theme, 

My  Mary ! 

*  Mrs.  Unwinu 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  505 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 

beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary  I 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 

Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 

Yet  gently  press'd,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary  I 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  provest, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  movest, 
Upheld  by  two  ;  yet  still  thou  lovest, 

My  Mary  I 

And  still  to  love,  though  press'd  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary  I 

But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know, 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Mary ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary ! 


ON  RECEIVING  HEYNE'S  VIRGIL 

FROM  MR.  HATLEY 
(October,  1793.) 

I  SHOULD  have  deem'd  it  once  an  effort  vain 
To  sweeten  more  sweet  Maro's  matchless  strain, 
But  from  that  error  now  behold  me  free, 
Since  I  received  him  as  a  gift  from  thee. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ANSWER 

TO  STANZAS  ADDRESSED  TO  LADY  HESKETH,  BY  MISS  CATHARINE 
FANSHAWE,  IN  RETURNING  A  POEM  OF  MR.  COWPER'S  SENT 
TO  HER  ON  CONDITION  SHE  SHOULD  NEITHER  SHOW  IT  OR 
TAKE  A  COPY.* 

To  be  remember'd  thus  is  fame, 

And  in  the  fir,,t  degree  ; 
And  did  the  few  like  her  the  same, 

The  press  might  sleep  for  me. 

So  Homer,  in  the  memory  stored 

Of  many  a  Grecian  belle, 
Was  once  preserved  —  a  richer  hoard, 

But  never  lodged  so  well. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  TOMB  OF  MR.  HAMILTON. 

PAUSE  here,  and  think  :  a  monitory  rhyme 
Demands  one  moment  of  thy  fleeting  time, 
Consult  life's  silent  clock,  thy  bounding  vein ; 
Seems  it  to  say — "  Health  here  has  long  to  reign?  n 
Hast  thou  the  vigor  of  thy  youth  ?  an  eye 
That  beams  delight  ?  a  heart  untaught  to  sigh  ? 
Yet  fear.     Youth,  ofttimes  healthful  and  at  ease 
Anticipates  a  day  it  never  sees ; 
And  many  a  tomb,  like  Hamilton's,  aloud 
Exclaims,  "  Prepare  thee  for  an  early  shroud." 


MONTES  GLACIALES,  IN  OCEANO  GERMANICO 

NATANTES.f 

(March  12th,  1799.) 

EN,  quse  prodigia,  ex  oris  allata  remotis, 
Oras  adveniunt  pavefacta  per  aequora  nostras ! 
Non  equidem  priscse  sseclum  rediisse  videtur 
Pyrrhse,  cum  Proteus  pecus  altos  visere  montes 


*  Miss  Fanshawe  returned  the  poem,  with  some  stanzas,  informing  her  friend  that 
She  had  obeyed  the  letter  of  the  "  harsh  command,"  but  had  committed  the  verses  to 
memory 

t  This  poem  was  suggested  by  a  paragraph  in  the  newspapers,  describing  enor- 
mous icebergs  which  had  been  seen  drifting  in  the  German  Ocean. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  507 

Et  sylvas,  egit.     Sed  tempora  vix  leviora 

Adsurit,  evulsiquando  radieitus  alti 

In  mare  descendant  morites,  fluctusque  pererrant. 

Quid  vero  hoc  monstri  est  magis  et  mirabile  visu  ? 

Splendentes  video,  ceu  pulchro  ex  sere  vel  auro 

Conflatos,  rutilisque  accinctos  undique  gemiuis, 

Bacca  caerulea,  et  flamiiias  imitaiite  pyropo. 

Ex  oriente  adsunt,  ubi  gazas  optima  tellus 

Parturit  omnigenas,  quibus  oeva  per  oinnia  sumptu 

Ingenti  finxere  sibi  diademata  reges  ? 

Vix  hoc  crediderim.     Non  fallunt  talia  acutos 

Mercatorum  oculos :  prius  et  quam  littora  Gangis 

Liquissent,  avidis  gratissirna  praeda  fuissent. 

Ortos  unde  putemus  ?     An  illos  Ves'vius  atrox 

Protulit,  ignivomisve  ejecit  faucibus  ^Etna  ? 

Luce  in  leant  propria,  Phcebive,  per  at  ra  purum 

Nunc  stimulantis  equos,  argentea  tela  retorquent  ? 

Phcbbi  luce  niicant.     Vends  et  fluctibus  altis 

Appulsi,  et  rapidis  subter  currentibus  uiulis. 

Tandem  non  fallunt  oculos.     Capita  alta  videre  est 

Multa  onerata  nive  et  canis  conspersa  pruinis. 

Csetera  sunt  glacies.     Procul  hinc,  ubi  Bruma  fere  omnes 

Contristat  menses,  portenta  haee  horrida  no  bis 

Ilia  strui  voluit .     Quoties  de  culmine  summo 

Clivorum  fluerent  in  littora  prona,  solutae 

Sole,  nives,  propero  tendentes  in  mare  cursu, 

Ilia  gelu  fixit.     Paulatini  attollere  sese 

Miruin  ccepit  opus  ;  glacieque  ab  origine  rerum. 

In  glaciem  aggesta  sublimes  vertice  tandem 

Aquavit  montes,  non  crescere  nescia  moles. 

Sic  immensa  diu  stetit,  seternumque  stetisset         ( 

Congeries,  hominum  neque  vi  neque  mobilis  arte, 

Littora  ni  tandem  declivia  deseruisset, 

Pondere  victa  suo.     Dilabitur.     Omnia  circum 

Antra  et  saxa  gemunt,  subito  concussa  fragore, 

Dum  ruit  in  pelagum,  tanquam  studiosa  iiatandi, 

Ingens  tota  strues.     Sic  Delos  dicitur  olim, 

Insula,  in  ^gaeo  fluitasse  erratica  ponto. 

Sed  non  ex  glacie  Delos ;  neque  torpida  Delum 

Bruma  inter  rupes  genuit  nudum  sterilemque. 

Sed  vestita  herbis  erat  ilia,  ovnataque  nunquam 

Decidua  lauro  ;  et  Delum  dilexit  Apollo. 

At  vos,  errones  horrendi,  et  caligine  digni 

Cimmeria,  Deus  idem  odit.     Natalia  vestra, 

Nubibus  involvens  frontem,  non  ille  tueri 

Sustinuit.     Patrium  vos  ergo  requirite  ccelum ! 


$05  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Ite  !  Redite !  Timete  moras  ;  ni  leniter  austro 
Spirante,  et  nitidas  Phoebo  jaculante  sagittas 
Hostili  vobis,  pereatis  gurgite  misti  1 


ON  THE  ICE  ISLANDS  SEEN  FLOATING  IN  THE 

GERMAN  OCEAN. 

(March  19th,  1799.) 

WHAT  portents,  from  what  distant  region,  ride, 

Unseen  till  now  in  ours,  the  astonish'd  tide  ? 

In  ages  past,  old  Proteus,  with  his  droves 

Of  sea-calves,  sought  the  mountains  and  the  groves  ; 

But  now,  descending  whence  of  late  they  stood, 

Themselves  the  mountains  seem  to  rove  the  flood  ; 

Dire  times  were  they,  full  charged  with  human  woes ; 

And  these,  scarce  less  calamitous  than  those. 

What  view  we  now  ?    More  wondrous  still !     Behold  I 

Like  burnish'd  brass  they  shine,  or  beaten  gold ; 

And  all  around  the  pearl's  pure  splendor  show, 

And  all  around  the  ruby's  fiery  glow. 

Come  they  from  India,  where  the  burning  earth, 

All-bounteous,  gives  her  richest  treasure  birth ; 

And  where  the  costly  gems,  that  beam  around 

The  brows  of  mightiest  potentates,  are  found? 

No.     Never  such  a  countless  dazzling  store 

Had  left  unseen  the  Granges'  peopled  shore  ; 

Rapacious  hands,  and  ever- watchful  eyes, 

Should  sooner  far  have  marked  and  seized  the  prize. 

Whence  sprang  they  then  ?     Ejected  have  they  come 

From  Ves'vius',  or  from  Etna's  burning  womb? 

Thus  shine  they  self-illumed,  or  but  display 

The  borrow'd  splendors  of  a  cloudless  day  ? 

With  borrow'd  beams  they  shine.     The  gales  that  breath 

Now  landward,  and  the  current's  force  beneath, 

Have  borne  them  nearer :  and  the  nearer  sight, 

Advantaged  more,  contemplates  them  aright. 

Their  lofty  summits  crested  high  they  show, 

With  mingled  sleet,  and  long-incumbent  snow. 

The  rest  is  ice.     Far  hence,  where,  most  severe. 

Bleak  winter  well-nigh  saddens  all  the  year, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  $09 

Their  infant  growth  began.     He  bade  arise 

Their  uncouth  forms,  portentous  in  our  eyes. 

Oft  as  dissolved  by  transient  suns,  the  snow 

Left  the  tall  cliff  to  join  the  flood  below  ; 

He  caught,  and  curdled  with  a  freezing  blast 

The  current,  ere  it  reach'd  the  boundless  waste. 

By  slow  degrees  uprose  the  wondrous  pile, 

And  long  successive  ages  roll'd  the  while, 

Till,  ceaseless  in  its  growth,  it  claim'd  to  stand 

Tall  as  its  rival  mountains  on  the  land. 

Thus  stood,  and  unremovable  by  skill 

Or  force  of  man,  had  stood  the  structure  still. 

But  that,  though  firmly  fix'd,  supplanted  yet 

By  pressure  of  its  own  enormous  weight, 

It  left  the  shelving  beach — and  with  a  sound 

That  shook  the  bellowing  waves  and  rocks  around, 

Self-launch'd,  and  swiftly,  to  the  briny  wave, 

As  if  instinct  with  strong  desire  to  lave, 

Down  went  the  ponderous  mass,     So  bards  of  old 

How  Delos  swam  the  JEgean  deep  have  told. 

But  not  of  ice  was  Delos.     Delos  bore 

Herb,  fruit,  and  flower.      She,  crown'd  with  laurel,  wore, 

Even  under  wintry  skies,  a  summer  smile  ; 

And  Delos  was  Apollo's  favorite  isle. 

But,  horrid  wanderers  of  the  deep,  to  you 

He  deems  Cimmerian  darkness  only  due. 

Your  hated  birth  he  deign'd  not  to  survey, 

Hut,  scornful,  turn'd  his  glorious  eyes  away. 

Hence  I     Seek  your  home,  nor  longer  rashly  dare 

The  darts  of  Phoebus,  and  a  softer  air  ; 

Lest  ye  regret,  too  late,  your  native  coast, 

In  110  congenial  gulf  forever  lost  I 


THE  CASTAWAY.* 

(March  20th,  1799.) 

OBSCUREST  night  involved  the  sky, 

The  Atlantic  billows  roar'd, 
\V  hen  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
fWash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 
Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 
His  floating  home  forever  left.    J 


*  This  was  fowper's  last  original  poem.    It  is  founded  on  an  anecdote  related  in 
Anson's  voyages. 


5 I 0  MISCELLANEOUS  JJO£MS. 


No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain  ; 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay  j 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away  ; 
\  But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
I  Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted  ;  nor  his  friends  had  fail'd 
To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevail'd, 
That  pitiless  perforce 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succor  yet  they  could  afford ; 

And.  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delay'd  not  to  bestow : 
But  he,  they  knew,  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seem'd,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them  ; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld : 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repell'd ; 
And  ever,  as  the  zninutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  6r  cried — "  Adieu !  ' 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  Before"" 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more : 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


No  poet  wept  him  ;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear  : 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  gjvejhe  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date : 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allay'd, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatch'd  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perish'd,  each  alone : 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelm'd  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


TRANSLATION   OF  PSALM  CXXXVIL 

To  Babylon's  proud  waters  brought, 

In  bondage  where  we  lay, 
With  tears  on  Sion's  Hill  we  thought, 

And  sighed  our  hours  away  ; 
Neglected  on  the  willows  hung 
Our  useless  harps,  while  every  tongue 

Bewailed  the  fatal  day. 

Then  did  the  base  insulting  foe 
Some  joyous  notes  demand, 

Such  as  in  Sion  used  to  flow 
From  Judah's  happy  band  : 

Alas  !  what  joyous  notes  have  we, 

Our  country  spoiled,  no  longer  free, 
And  in  a  foreign  land  ? 

O  Solyma  !  if  e'er  thy  praise 

Be  silent  in  my  song, 
Rude  and  unpleasing  be  the  lays, 

And  artless  be  my  tongue  1 
Thy  name  my  fancy  still  employs  ; 
To  thee,  great  fountain  of  my  joys, 

My  sweetest  airs  belong. 

Remember,  Lord  I  that  hostile  sound, 
When  Edom's  children  cried, 

"  Razed  be  her  turrets  to  the  ground, 
And  humbled  be  her  pride  ! ' 

Remember,  Lord !  and  let  the  foe 

The  terrors  of  thy  vengeance  know, 
Thy  vengeance  they  defied ! 

Thou  too,  great  Babylon,  shalt  fall 

A  victim  to  our  God  ; 
Thy  monstrous  crimes  already  call 

For  heaven's  chastising  rod. 
Happy  who  shall  thy  little  ones 
Relentless  dash  against  the  stones, 

And  spread  then  limbs  abroad. 


TRANSLATION  OF  GREEK  VERSES. 


THE  SPARTAN  MOTHER,  BY  JULIAN  US. 

A  SPARTAN,  his  companion  slain, 

Alone  from  battle  fled  ; 
His  mother  kindling  with  disdain 

That  she  had  borne  him,  struck  him  dead ; 
For  coura^f.  not  birth  alone, 
In  Sparta,  testifies  a  son  ! 


ON  THE  SAME,  BY  PALLADAS.* 

A  SPARTAN  'scaping  from  the  fight, 

His  mother  met  him  in  his  flight, 

Upheld  a  falchion  to  his  breast, 

And  thus  the  fugitive  addressed  : 

"  Thou  canst  but  live  to  blot  with  shame 

Indi-lihle  thy  mother's  name, 

While  every  breath  that  thou  shalt  draw 

Offends  against  thy  country's  law  ; 

But,  if  thou  perish  by  this  hand, 

Myself  indeed  throughout  the  land, 

To  my  dishonor,  shall  be  known 

The  mother  still  of  such  a  son  ; 

But  Sparta  will  be  safe  and  free, 

And  that  shall  serve  to  comfort  me." 


AN  EPITAPH. 

MY  name — my  country — what  are  they  to  thee? 
What,  whether  base  or  proud  my  pedigree  ? 
Perhaps  I  far  surpassed  all  other  men — 
Perhaps  I  fell  below  them  all — what  then  ? 
Suffice  it,  stranger  I  that  thou  seest  a  tomb — 
Thou  know'st  its  use — it  hides — no  matter  whom. 

•He  lived  in  the  fifth  century. 

(513) 


514  TKA  NSLA  TIONS 

•  — ' _— — __  >     • 

ANOTHER. 

TAKE  to  thy  bosom,  gentle  earth,  a  swain 

With  much  hard  labor  in  thy  service  worn  I 

He  set  the  vines  that  clothe  yon  ample  plain* 

And  he  these  olives  that  the  vale  adorn. 

He  filled  with  grain  the  glebe ;  the  rills  he  led 

Through  this  green  herbage,  and  those  fruitful  bowers 

Thou,  therefore,  earth !  lie  lightly  on  his  head, 

His  hoary  head,  and  deck  his  grave  with  flowers. 

ANOTHER. 

PAINTER,  this  likeness  is  too  strong, 
And  we  shall  mourn  the  dead  too  long. 


ANOTHER. 

AT  threescore  winters'  end  I  died, 
A  cheerless  being,  sole  and  sad  ; 
The  nuptial  knot  I  never  tied, 
And  wish  my  father  never  had. 


ON  MELANIPPUS  AND  HIS  SISTER,  BY 
CALLIMACHUS.* 

AT  morn  we  placed  on  his  funeral  bier 

Young  Melanippus  ;  and  at  eventide, 

Unable  to  sustain  a  loss  so  dear, 

By  her  own  hand  his  blooming  sister  died. 

Thus  Aristippus  mourned  his  noble  race, 

Annihilated  by  a  double  blow, 

Nor  son  could  hope,  nor  daughter  more  to  embrace 

And  all  Gyrene  saddened  at  his  woe. 

ON    MILTIADES. 

MILTIADES  I  thy  valor  best 

(Although  in  every  region  known) 

The  men  of  Persia  can  attest, 
Taught  bj  thyself  at  Marathon. 


1  An  Alexandrian  poet  who  iived  in  the  third  century  B.  O. 


GREEK    VERSES. 


ON   AN   INFANT. 

BEWAIL  not  much,  may  parents !  me,  the  prey 
Of  ruthless  Ades,  and  sepulchred  here. 
An  infant,  in  my  fifth  scarce  finished  year, 
He  found  all  sportive,  innocent,  and  gay, 
Your  young  Calliniachus  ;  and  if  I  knew 
Not  many  joys,  my  griefs  were  also  few. 

ON  ARETIMIAS,  BY  HERACLIDES. 

IN  Cnidus  born,  the  consort  I  became 
Of  Euphron.     Aretimias  was  my  name. 
His  bed  I  shared,  not  proved  a  barren  bride, 
But  bore  two  children  at  a  birth,  and  died. 
One  child  I  leave  to  solace  and  uphold 
Euphron  hereafter,  when  infirm  and  old. 
And  one,  for  his  remembrance  sake,  I  bear 
To  Pluto's  realm,  till  he  shall  join  me  there. 


ON  A  REED-PEN. 


I  WAS  of  late  a  barren  plant, 

Useless,  insignificant, 

Nor  fig,    nor.  grape,  nor   apple 

bore, 

A  native  of  the  marshy  shore  ; 
But  gathered  for  poetic  use, 
And  plunged  into  a  sable  juice, 
Of  which  my  modicum  1  sip, 


With  narrow  mouth  and  slender 

lip, 
At    once,   although   by   nature 

dumb, 

All  eloquent  I  have  become, 
And  speak  with  fluency  untired, 
As  if  by  Phoebus  self  inspired. 


TO  HEALTH. 


ELDEST-BORN  of  powers  divine  ! 
Blessed  Hygeia !  be  it  mine 
To  enjoy  what  thou  canst  give, 
And  henceforth  with  thee  to  live: 
For  in  power  if  pleasure  be, 
Wealth  or  numerous  progeny, 
Or  in  amorous  embrace, 
Where  no  spy  infests  the  place  ; 
Or  in  aught  that  heaven  bestows 
To  alleviate  human  woes, 


When  the  wearied  heart  despairs 
Of  a  respite  from  its  cares  ; 
These  and  every  true  delight 
Flourish  only  in  thy  sight  ; 
And  the  sister  Graces  three 
Owe,  themselves,  their  youth  to 

thee, 

Without  whom  we  may  possess 
Much,  but  never  happiness. 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


ON  THE  ASTROLOGERS. 


THE  astrologers  did  all    alike 

presage 
My  uncle's  dying  in  extreme  old 


age; 


One  only  disagreed.    But  he  was 


wise, 


And  spoke  not  till  he  heard  the 
funeral  cries. 


ON  AN  OLD  WOMAN. 


M  YCILLA  dyes  her  locks,  'tis  said; 
But  'tis  a  foul  aspersion  ; 


She    buys    them    black ;    they 

therefore  need 
No  subsequent  immersion. 


ON  INVALIDS. 

FAR  happier  are  the  dead,  methinks,  than  they 
Who  look  for  death,  and  fear  it  every  day. 


ON  FLATTERERS. 


No  mischief  worthier  of  our  fear 
In  nature  can  be  found. 

Than      friendship      in      ostent 

sincere, 
But  hollow  and  unsound. 


Arid    lulled    into   a    dangerous 

dream 

We  close  infold  a  foe, 
Who  strikes,  when  most  secure 

we  seem, 
The  inevitable  blow. 


TO  THE  SWALLOW. 


ATTIC  maid  !  with  honey  fed, 
Bear'st    thou    to   thy  v  callow 
brood 

Yonder  locust  from  the  mead, 
Destined  their  delicious  food  ? 

F e  have  kindred  voices  clear, 
Ye  alike  unfold  the  wing, 


Migrate  hither,  sojourn  here. 
Both  attendant  on  the  spring, 

Ah  !  for  pity  drop  the  prize  ; 

Let  it  not  with  truth  be  said, 
That  a  songster  gasps  and  dies, 

That  a  songster  may  be  fed. 


ON  LATE  ACQUIRED  WEALTH. 

POOR  in  my  youth,  and  in  life's  later  scenes 
Rich  to  no  end,  I  curse  my  natal  hour, 

Who  nought  enjoyed  while  young,  denied  the  means 
And  nought  when  old  enjoyed,  denied  the  power. 


OF  GREEK  VERSES. 


5'7 


ON  A  TRUE  FRIEND. 


HAST  thou  a  friend  ?  Thou  hast 

indeed 
A  rich  and  large  supply, 


Treasure    to   serve    your   every 

need, 
Well  managed,  till  you  die. 


ON  A  BATH,  BY  PLATO. 

DID  Cytherea  to  the  skies  I  Or  was  it  Cytherea's  touch, 

From  this  pellucid  lymph  arise  ?    When  bathing  here,  that  made 

it  such? 


ON  A  FOWLER,  BY  ISIODORUS. 

WITH  seeds  and  birdlime,  from  the  desert  air, 
Eumelus  gathered  free,  though  M-anty,  fare. 
No  lordly  patron's  hand  he  deigned  to  kiss, 
Nor  luxury  knew,  save  liberty,  nor  bliss. 
Thrice  thirty  years  he  lived,  and  to  his  heirs 
His  seeds  bequeathed,  his  birdlime,  and  his  snares. 


ON  NIOBE.* 

CHARON  !  receive  a  family  on  board, 
Itself  sufficient  for  thy  crazy  yawl ; 

Apollo  and  Diana,  for  a  word 
By  me  too  proudly  spoken,  slew  us  all. 


ON  A  GOOD  MAN. 

TRAVELLER,  regret  me  not ;  for  thou  shalt  find 

Just  cause  of  sorrow  none  in  my  decease, 
Who,  dying,  children's  children  left  behind, 

And  with  one  wife  lived  many  a  year  in  peace  : 
Three  virtuous  youths  espoused  my  daughters  three, 

And  oft  their  infants  in  my  bosom  lay, 
Nor  saw  I  one  of  all  derived  from  me, 

Touched  with  disease,  or  torn  by  death  away. 

*  She  boasted  that  her  children  were  more  beautiful  than  Apollo  and  Diana,  who  in 
their  rage  slew  her  whole  family,  and  she  wept  herself  into  stone. 


5*8  TRANSLAJVONS 


Their  duteous  hands  my  funeral  rites  bestowed, 
And  me,  by  blameless  manners  fitted  well 

To  seek  it,  sent  to  the  serene  abode 
Where  shades  of  pious  men  forever  dwell. 


ON  A  MISER. 

THEY  call  thee  rich — I  deem  thee  poor, 
Since,  if  thou  dar'st  not  use  thy  store, 
But  sav'st  it  only  for  thine  heirs, 
The  treasure  is  not  thine,  but  theirs. 


ANOTHER. 

A  MISER,  traversing  his  house, 

Espied,  unusual  there,  a  mouse, 

And  thus  his  uninvited  guest 

Briskly  inquisitive  addressed : 

"  Tell  me,  my  dear,  to  what  cause  is  it 

I  owe  this  unexpected  visit  ?  ' 

The  mouse  her  host  obliquely  eyed, 

And,  smiling,  pleasantly  replied  : 

"  Fear  not,  good  fellow,  for  your  hoard, 

I  come  to  lodge,  and  not  to  board." 


ANOTHER. 

* 

ART  thou  some  individual  of  a  kind 

Long  lived  by  nature  as  the  rook  or  hind  ? 

Heap  treasure,  then,  for  if  thy  need  be  such, 

Thou  hast  excuse,  and  scarce  canst  heap  too  much. 

But  man  thou  seem'st,  clear  therefore  from  thy  breast 

This  lust  of  treasure — folly  at  the  best ' 

For  why  shouldst  thou  go  wasted  to  the  tomb, 

To  fatten  with  thy  spoils  thou  know'st  not  whom  ? 

ON  FEMALE  INCONSTANCY. 

RICH,  thou  hadst  many  lovers — poor,  hast  none, 

Sc  surely  want  extinguishes  the  flame, 
And  she  who  called  thee  once  her  pretty  one, 

And  her  Adonis,  now  inquires  thy  name. 


OF  GREEK  VERSES.  519 


Where  wast  them  born,  Sosicrates,  and  where, 
In  what  strange  country  can  thy  parents  live, 

Who  seem'st,  by  thy  complaints,  not  yet  aware 
That  want's  a  crime  no  woman  can  forgive  ? 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

HAPPY  songster,  perched  above, 
On  the  summit  of  the  grove, 
Whom  a  dewdrop  cheers  to  sing 
With  the  freedom  of  a  king. 
From  thy  perch  survey  the  fields 
Where  prolific  nature  yields 
Naught  that,  willingly  as  she, 
Man  surrenders  not  to  thee. 
For  hostility  or  hate 
None  thy  pleasures  can  create. 
Thee  it  satisfies  to  siiij^ 
Sweetly  the  return  of  spring, 
Herald  of  the  genial  hours, 
Harming  neither  herbs  nor  flowers. 
Therefore  man  thy  voice  attends 
Gladly — thou  and  he  are  friends  ; 
Nor  thy  never  ceasing  strains 
Phoebus  or  the  Muse  disdains 
As  too  simple  or  too  long, 
For  themselves  inspire  the  song. 
Earth-born,  bloodless,  undecaying, 
Ever  singing,  sporting,  playing, 
What  has  nature  else  to  show 
Godlike  in  its  kind  as  thou  ? 


ON  HERMOCRATIA. 

HERMOCRATIA  named — save  only  one — 
Twice  fifteen  births  I  bore,  and  buried  none  j 
For  neither  Phoebus  pierced  my  thriving  joys, 
Nor  Dian — she  my  girls,  or  he  my  boys. 
But  Dian  rather,  when  my  daughters  lay 
In  parturition,  chased  their  pangs  away. 
And  all  my  sons,  by  Phoebus'  bounty,  shared 
A  vigorous  youth,  by  sickness  unimpaired. 
O  Niobe !  far  less  prolific  !  see 
Thy  boast  against  Latona  shamed  by  m«  I 


520  TRANSLATIONS 

WHAT  WEALTH  CANNOT  BUY. 

FROM  MENANDER.* 

FOND  youth  !  whom  dream'st  that  hoarded  gold 

Is  needful,  not  alone  to  pay 
For  all  thy  various  items  sold, 

To  serve  the  wants  of  every  day  ; 

Bread,  vinegar,  and  oil,  and  meat, 
For  savory  viands  seasoned  high  ; 

But  somewhat  more  important  yet — 
I  tell  thee  what  it  cannot  buy. 

No  treasure,  hadst  thou  more  amassed 
Than  fame  to  Tantalus  assigned, 

Would  save  thee  from  a  tomb  at  last, 
But  thou  must  leave  it  all  behind. 

I  give  thee,  therefore,  counsel  wise  ; 

Confide  not  vainly  in  thy  store, 
However  large — much  less  despise 

Others  comparatively  poor ; 

But  in  thy  more  exalted  state 

A  just  and  equal  temper  show, 
That  all  who  see  thee  rich  and  great 

May  deem  thee  worthy  to  be  so. 

ON  PALLAS  BATHING. 

FROM  A  HYMN  OF  CALLIMACHUS. 

NOR  oils  of  balmy  scent  produce, 
Nor  mirror  for  Minerva's  use, 
Ye  nymphs  who  lave  her ;  she,  arrayed 
In  genuine  beauty,  scorns  their  aid. 
Not  even  when  they  left  the  skies 
To  seek  on  Ida's  head  the  prize 
From  Paris'  hand,  did  Juno  deign, 
Or  Pallas  in  the  crystal  plain 
Of  Simois'  stream  her  locks  to  trace, 
Or  in  the  mirror's  polished  face, 
Though  Venus  oft  with  anxious  care 
Adjusted  twice  a  single  hair. 


*  A  Greek  poet  who  lived  B.  c.  342. 


OF  GREEK  VERSES.  521 


ON  A  FLATTERING  MIRROR,  TO  DEMOSTHENES. 

* 

IT  flatters  and  deceives  thy  view, 

This  mirror  of  ill-polished  ore  ', 
For  were  it  just,  and  told  thee  true, 

Thou  wouldst  consult  it  never  more. 

ON  A  SIMILAR  CHARACTER. 

You  give  your  cheeks  a  rosy  stain, 

With  washes  dye  your  hair  ; 
But  paint  and  washes  both  are  vain 

To  give  a  youthful  air. 

Those  wrinkles  mock  your  daily  toil, 

No  labor  will  efface  'em, 
You  wear  a  mask  of  smoothest  oil, 

Yet  still  with  ease  we  trace  'eiu. 

An  art  so  fruitless  then  forsake, 

Which  though  you  much  excel  in, 

You  never  can  contrive  to  make 
Old  Hecuba  young  Helen. 

ON  AN  UGLY  FELLOW. 

BEWARE,  my  friend !  of  crystal  brook, 
Or  fountain,  lest  that  hideous  hook, 

Thy  nose,  thou  chance  to  see ; 
Narcissus'  fate  would  then  be  thine, 
And  self-detested  thou  wouldst  pine, 

As  self-enamoured  he. 

ON  A  BATTERED  BEAUTY. 

HAIR,  wax,  rouge,  honey,  teeth  you  buy, 

A  multifarious  store ! 
A  mask  at  once  would  all  supply, 

Nor  would  it  cost  you  more. 

ON  A  THIEF. 

WHEN  Aulus,  the  nocturnal  thief,  made  prize 
Of  Hermes,  swift- winged  envoy  of  the  skies, 
Hermes,  Arcadia's  king,  the  thief  divine, 
Who  when  an  infant  stole  Apollo's  kinef 


522  TRANSLATIONS 


And  whom,  as  arbiter  and  overseer 

Of  our  gymnastic  sports,  we  planted  here  ; 

"  Hermes,"  he  cried,  "you  meet  no  new  disaster  ; 

Ofttimes  the  pupil  goes  beyond  his  master." 


ON  PEDIGREE,  FROM  EPICHARMUS.* 

MY  mother  !  if  thou  love  me,  name  no  more 
My  noble  birth !    Sounding  at  every  breath 
My  noble  birth,  thou  kill'st  me.     Thither  fly, 
As  to  their  only  refuge,  all  from  whom 
Nature  withholds  all  good  besides  ;  they  boast 
Their  noble  birth,  conduct  us  to  the  tombs 
Of  their  forefathers,  and,  from  age  to  age 
Ascending,  trumpet  their  illustrious  race : 
But  whom  hast  thou  beheld,  or  canst  thou  name 
Derived  from  no  forefathers  ?    Such  a  man 
Lives  not ;  for  how  could  such  be  born  at  all  ? 
And  if  it  chance  that,  native  of  a  land 
Far  distant,  or  in  infancy  deprived 
Of  all  his  kindred,  one,  who  cannot  trace 
His  origin,  exist,  why  deem  him  sprung 
From  baser  ancestry  than  theirs  who  can  ? 
My  mother !  he  whom  nature  at  his  birth 
Endowed  with  virtuous  qualities,  although 
An  JEthiop  and  a  slave,  is  nobly  born. 


ON  ENVY. 

PITY,  says  the  Theban  bard,f 
From  my  wishes  I  discard ; 
Envy,  let  me  rather  be, 
Rather  far,  a  theme  for  thee ! 
Pity  to  distress  is  shown, 
Envy  to  the  great  alone — 
So  the  Theban — But  to  shine 
Less  conspicuous  be  mine  1 
I  prefer  the  golden  mean, 
Pomp  and  penury  between  ; 
For  alarm  and  peril  wait 
Ever  on  the  lolftiest  state, 
And  the  lowest  to  the  end 
Obloquy  and  scorn  attend. 

•  The  first  Greek  comic  writer ;  he  lived  B.  c.  480.  t  Pindar. 


OF  GREEK  VERSES.  523 


ON  IMMODERATE  GRIEF,  BY  PHILEMON  * 

OFT  we  enhance  our  ills  by  discontent, 
And  give  them  bulk  beyond  what  nature  meant. 
A  parent,  brother,  friend  deceased,  to  cry- 
"  He's  dead  indeed,  but  he  was  born  to  die  ' 
Such  temperate  grief  is  suited  to  the  size 
And  burthen  of  the  loss  j  is  just  and  wise. 
But  to  exclaim,  "  Ah !  wherefore  was  I  born, 
Thus  to  be  left  forever  thus  forlorn  ? ' 
Who  thus  laments  his  loss  invites  distress, 
And  magnifies  a  woe  that  might  be  less, 
Through  dull  despondence  to  his  lot  resigned, 
And  leaving  reason's  remedy  behind. 


ON  THE  TEACHING  OF  CUPID,  BY  MOSCHUS.f 

I  SLEPT  when  Venus  entered  :  to  my  bed 

A  Cupid  in  her  beauteous  hand  she  led, 

A  bashful  seeming  boy,  and  thus  she  said  : 

"  Shepherd,  receive  my  little  one  !  I  bring 

An  untaught  love,  whom  thou  must  teach  to  sing." 

She  said,  and  left  him.     I,  suspecting  naught, 

Many  a  sweet  strain  my  subtle  pupil  taught, 

How  reed  to  reed  Pan  first  with  osier  bound, 

How  Pallas  formed  the  pipe  of  softest  sound, 

How  Hermes  gave  the  lute,  and  how  the  quire 

Of  Phoebus  owe  to  Phoebus'  self  the  lyre. 

Such  were  my  themes  ;  my  themes  naught  heeded  he, 

But  ditties  sang  of  amorous  sort  to  me, 

The  pangs  that  mortals  and  immortals  prove 

From  Venus'  influence,  and  the  darts  of  love. 

Thus  was  the  teacher  by  the  pupil  taught ; 

His  lessons  I  retained,  and  mine  forgot. 


*  An  Athenian  comic  poet  who  lived  B.  c.  330.  t  A  pastoral  poet  of  Sicily. 


524  TRA  NSLA  TIONS 


THE   FIFTH   SATIRE   OF   THE    FIRST   BOOK   OF 

HORACE. 

A   HUMOROUS  DESCRIPTION   OF  THE   AUTHOR'S  JOURNEY   FROM 

ROME   TO   BRUNDUSIUM. 

'TWAS  a  long  journey  lay  before  us, 
When  I  arid  honest  Heliodorus, 
(Who  far  in  point  of  rhetoric 
Surpasses  every  living  Greek,) 
Each  leaving  our  respective  home 
Together  sallied  forth  from  Rome. 

First  at  Aricia  we  alight, 
And  there  refresh  and  pass  the  night, 
Our  entertainment  rather  coarse 
Than  sumptuous,  but  I've  met  with  worse. 
Thence  o'er  the  causeway  soft  and  fair 
To  Appii-forum  we  repair. 
But  as  this  road  is  well  supplied 
(Temptation  strong  ! )  on  either  side 
With  inns  commodious,  snug,  and  warm, 
We  split  the  journey,  and  perform 
In  two  days'  time  what's  often  done 
By  brisker  travellers  in  one. 
Here  rather  choosing  not  to  sup 
Than  with  bad  water  mix  my  cup, 
After  a  warm  debate  in  spite 
Of  a  provoking  appetite, 
I  sturdily  resolved  at  last 
To  balk  it,  and  pronounce  a  fast, 
And  in  a  moody  humor  wait, 
While  my  less  dainty  comrades  bait. 

Now  o'er  the  spangled  hemisphere 
Diffused  the  starry  train  appear, 
When  there  arose  a  desperate  brawl ; 
The  slaves  and  bargemen,  one  and  all, 
Rending  their  throats  (have  mercy  on  us  !) 
As  if  they  were  resolved  to  stun  us. 
*'  Steer  the  barge  this  way  to  the  shore  I 
I  tell  you  we'll  admit  no  more  ! 
Plague  !  will  you  never  be  content?" 
Thus  a  whole  hour  at  least  is  spent, 
While  they  receive  the  several  fares, 
And  kick  the  mule  into  his  gears. 
Happy,  these  difficulties  past, 
Could  we  have  fallen  asleep  at  last  1 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  525 


But,  what  with  humming,  croaking,  biting, 
Gnats,  frogs,  and  all  their  plagues  uniting, 
These  tuneful  natives  of  the  lake 
Conspired  to  keep  us  broad  awake. 
Besides,  to  make  the  concert  full, 
Two  maudlin  wights,  exceeding  dull, 
The  bargeman  and  a  passenger, 
Each  in  his  turn,  essayed  an  air 
In  honor  of  his  absent  fair. 
At  length  the  passenger,  oppress'd 
With  wine,  left  off,  and  snored  the  rest. 
The  weary  bargeman  too  gave  o'er, 
And  hearing  his  companion  snore, 
Seized  the  occasion,  fix'd  the  barge, 
Turn'd  out  his  mule  to  graze  at  large, 
And  slept  forgetful  of  his  charge. 
And  now  the  sun  <>Vr  eastern  hill, 
Disco ver'd  that  our  barge  stood  still ; 
When  one,  whose  anp-r  vex'd  him  sore, 
With  malice  fraught,  leaps  quick  on  shore, 
Plucks  up  a  stake,  with  many  a  thwack 
Assails  the  mule  and  driver's  back. 

Then  slowly  moving  on  with  pain, 
At  ten  Feronia's  stream  we  gain, 
And  in  her  pure  and  glassy  wave 
Our  hands  and  faces  gladly  lave. 
Climbing  three  miles,  fair  Anxur's  height 
We  reach,  with  stony  quarries  white. 
While  here,  as  wa>  agreed,  we  wait, 
Till,  charged  with  business  of  the  state, 
Maecenas  and  Cocceius  come, 
The  messengers  of  peace  from  Rome. 
My  eyes,  by  watery  humors  blear 
And  sore,  I  with  black  balsam  smear. 
At  length  they  join  us,  and  with  them 
Our  worthy  friend  Fonteius  came  ; 
A  man  of  such  complete  desert, 
Antony  loved  him  at  his  heart. 
At  Fundi  we  refused  to  bait, 
And  laugh'd  at  vain  Aufidius'  state, 
A  praetor  now,  a  scribe  before, 
The  purple-border'd  robe  he  wore, 
His  slave  the  smoking  censer  bore. 
Tired  at  Mursena's  we  repose, 
At  Formia  sup  at  Capito's. 

With  smiles  the  rising  morn  we  greet, 


526  TRA  NSLA  TIONS 


At  Sinuessa  pleased  to  meet 

With  Plotius,  Varius,  and  the  bard 

Whom  Mantua  first  with  wonder  heard. 

The  world  no  purer  spirits  knows ; 

For  none  my  heart  more  warmly  glows. 

Oh  !  what  embraces  we  bestow'd, 

And  with  what  joy  our  breasts  o'erflow'd  ! 

Sure  while  my  sense  is  sound  and  clear 

Long  as  I  live,  I  shall  prefer 

A  gay,  good-natured,  easy  friend, 

To  every  blessing  Heaven  can  send. 

At  a  small  village,  the  next  night, 

Near  the  Volturnus  we  alight  j 

Where,  as  employ'd  on  state  affairs, 

We  were  supplied  by  the  purveyors 

Frankly  at  once,  and  without  hire, 

With  food  for  man  and  horse,  and  fire. 

Capua  next  day  betimes  we  reach, 

Where  Virgil  and  myself,  who  each 

Labor' d  with  different  maladies, 

His  such  a  stomach, — mine  such  eyes, — 

As  would  not  bear  strong  exercise, 

In  drowsy  mood  to  sleep  resort  ; 

Maecenas  to  the  tennis-court. 

Next  at  Cocceius's  farm  we're  treated, 

Above  the  Caudian  tavern  seated  ; 

His  kind  and  hospitable  board 

With  choice  of  wholesome  food  was  stored. 

Now,  O  ye  Nine,  inspire  my  lays ! 
To  nobler  themes  my  fancy  raise  ! 
Two  combatants,  who  scorn  to  yield 
The  noisy,  tongue-disputed  field, 
Sarmentus  and  Cicirrus,  claim 
A  poet's  tribute  to  their  fame  ; 
Cicirrus  of  true  Oscian  breed, 
Sarmentus,  who  was  never  freed, 
But  ran  away.     We  won't  defame  him  ; 
His  lady  lives,  arid  still  may  claim  him. 
Thus  dignified,  in  harder  fray 
These  champions  their  keen  wit  display, 
And  first  Sarmentus  led  the  way. 
"Thy  locks,"  quoth  he,  "  so  rough  and  coarse, 
Looked  like  the  mane  of  some  wild  horse." 
We  laugh  :  Cicirrus  undismay'd — 
"  Have  at  you !  " — cries,  and  shakes  his  head. 
"Tis  well,"  Sarmentus  says,  "you've  lost 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  527 

That  horn  your  forehead  once  could  boast  ; 

Since  maim'd  and  mangled  as  you  are, 

You  seem  to  butt."     A  hideous  scar 

Improved  ('tis true)  with  double  grace 

The  native  horrors  of  his  face. 

Well.     After  much  jocosely  said 

Of  his  grim  front,  so  fiery  red, 

(For  carbuncles  had  blotch'd  it  o'er, 

As  usual  on  Campania's  shore,) 

"  Give  us,"  he  cried,  "  since  you're  so  big, 

A  sample  of  the  Cyclops  jig  ! 

Your  shanks,  methinks,  no  buskins  ask, 

Nor  does  your  phiz  require  a  mask." 

To  this  Cicirrus  :   "  In  return 

Of  you,  sir,  now  I  fain  would  learn, 

When  'twas,  no  longer  deem'd  a  slave, 

Your  chains  you  to  the  Lares  gave. 

For  though  a  scrivener's  right  you  claim* 

Your  lady's  title  is  the  same. 

But  what  could  make  you  run  away, 

Since,  pigmy  as  you  are,  eac-h  day 

A  single  pound  of  bread  would  quite 

O'erpower  your  puny  appetite  ?  ' 

Thus  joked  the  champions,  while  we  laugh'd, 

And  many  a  cheerful  bumper  quaff'd. 

To  Beneventum  next  we  steer  ; 
Where  our  good  host,  by  over  care 
In  roasting  thrushes  lean  as  mice, 
Had  almost  fallen  a  sacrifice. 
The  kitchen  soon  was  all  on  fire, 
And  to  the  roof  the  flames  aspire. 
There  might  you  see  each  man  and  master 
Striving,  amidst  this  sad  disaster, 
To  save  the  supper.     Then  they  came 
With  speed  enough  to  quench  the  flame. 
From  hence  we  first  at  distance  see 
The  Apulian  nills,  well  known  to  me, 
Parch'd  by  the  sultry  western  blast ; 
And  which  we  never  should  have  pass'd, 
Had  not  Trivicus  by  the  way 
Received  us  at  the  close  of  dav. 

V 

But  each  was  forced  at  entering  here 
To  pay  the  tribute  of  a  tear, 
For  more  of  smoke  than  fire  was  seen  ; 
The  hearth  was  piled  with  logs  so  green. 
From  hence  in  chaises  we  were  carried 


5  28  TRANSLA  TIONS 


Miles  twenty-four,  and  gladly  tarried 

At  a  small  town,  whose  name  my  verse 

(So  barbarous  is  it)  can't  rehearso. 

Know  it  you  may  by  many  a  sign, 

Water  is  dearer  far  than  wine. 

There  bread  is  deem'd  such  dainty  fare, 

That  every  prudent  traveller 

His  wallet  loads  with  many  a  crust ; 

For  at  Canusium,  you  might  just 

As  well  attempt  to  gnaw  a  stone 

As  think  to  get  a  morsel  down. 

That  too  with  scanty  streams  is  fed  j 

Its  founder  was  brave  Diomed. 

Good  Varius  (ah,  that  friends  must  part !) 

Here  left  us  all  with  aching  heart. 

At  Rubi  we  arrived  that  day, 

Well  jaded  by  the  length  of  way, 

And  sure  poor  mortals  ne'er  were  wetter. 

Next  day  no  weather  could  be  better  ; 

No  roads  so  bad  ;  we  scarce  could  crawl 

Along  to  fishy  Barium's  wall. 

The  Egnatians  next,  who  by  the  rules 

Of  common  sense  are  knaves  or  fools, 

Made  all  our  sides  with  laughter  heave, 

Since  we  with  them  must  needs  believe, 

That  incense  in  their  temples  burns, 

And  without  fire  to  ashes  turns. 

To  circumcision's  bigots  tell 

Such  tales !  for  me,  I  know  full  well, 

That  in  high  heaven,  unmoved  by  care, 

The  gods  eternal  quiet  share : 

Nor  can  I  deem  their  spleen  the  cause 

Why  fickle  Nature  breaks  her  laws. 

Brundusium  last  we  reach  ;  and  there 

Stop  short  the  muse  and  traveller. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  529 

THE    NINTH    SATIRE    OF    THE    FIRST    BOOK    OF 

HORACE. 

THE  DESCRIPTION   OF  AN   IMPERTINENT. 

ADAPTED  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIMES. 

1759. 

SAUNTERING  along  the  street  one  day, 

On  trifles  musing  by  the  way, 

Up  steps  a  free  familiar  wi^iit ; 

(I  scarcely  knew  the  man  l>y  sight.) 

"  Carlos,"  he  cried,  "your  hand,  my  dear; 

Gad,  I  rejoice  to  meet  you  here  ! 

Pray  Heaven  I  see  you  well  ! '      **  So,  so  ; 

Even  well  enough,  as  times  now  go. 

The  same  good  wishes,  sir,  to  you." 

Finding  he  still  pursued  me  close, 

*4  Sir,  you  have  business,  I  suppose?  " 

44  My  business,  sir.  is  quickly  done, 

'Tis  but  to  make  my  merit  known. 

Sir,  1  have  read'       'O  learned  sir, 

You  and  your  learning  I  revere." 

Then,  sweating  with  anxiety, 

And  sadly  longing  to  get  free, 

Gods,  how  I  scamper'd,  scuffled  for't, 

Ran,  halted,  ran  again,  stopp'd  short, 

Beckon'd  my  boy,  and  pull'd  him  near, 

And  whisper' d  nothing  in  his  ear. 

Teased  with  his  loose  unjointed  chat, 
4-  What  street  is  this  ?     What  house  is  that  ? ' 
O  Harlow,  how  I  envied  thee 
Thy  unabash'd  effrontery, 
Who  dar'st  a  foe  with  freedom  blame, 
And  call  a  coxcomb  by  his  name  1 
When  I  return'd  him  answer  none, 
Obligingly  the  fool  ran  on, 
"  I  see  you're  dismally  distress'd, 
Would  give  the  world  to  be  released, 
But,  by  your  leave,  sir,  I  shall  still 
Stick  to  your  skirts,  do  what  you  will. 
Pray  which  way  does  your  journey  tend  ?  ' 
"  Oh  'tis  a  tedious  way,  my  friend, 
Across  the  Thames,  the  Lord  knows  where : 


530  TRANSLA  TIO1VS 

I  would  not  trouble  you  so  far." 

"  Well,  I'm  at  leisure  to  attend  you." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  thought  I,  "  the  De'il  befriend  you  t  n 

No  ass  with  double  panniers  rack'd, 

Oppress'd,  o'erladen,  broken-back'd, 

E'er  look'd  a  thousandth  part  so  dull 

As  I,  nor  half  so  like  a  fool. 

"  Sir,  1  know  little  of  myself," 

Proceeds  the  pert  conceited  elf, 

"  If  Gray  or  Mason  you  will  deem 

Than  me  more  worthy  your  esteem. 

Poems  I  write  by  folios, 

As  fast  as  other  men  write  prose. 

Then  I  can  sing  so  loud,  so  clear, 

That  Beard*  cannot  with  me  compare. 

In  dancing,  too,  I  all  surpass, 

Not  Cooke  can  move  with  such  a  grace." 

Here  I  made  shift,  with  much  ado, 

To  interpose  a  word  or  two. 

"Have  you  no  parents,  sir,  no  friends, 

Whose  welfare  on  your  own  depends  ?  " 

'*  Parents,  relations,  say  you  ?    No. 

They're  all  disposed  of  long  ago." 

"  Happy  to  be  no  more  perplex'd  I 

My  fate  too  threatens,  I  go  next. 

Despatch  me,  sir,  'tis  now  too  late, 

Alas  !  to  struggle  with  my  fate ! 

Well,  I'm  convinced  my  time  is  come. 

When  young,  a  gipsy  told  my  doom  ; 

The  beldame  shook  her  palsied  head, 

As  she  perused  my  palm,  and  said, 

4  Of  poison,  pestilence,  or  war, 

Gout,  stone,  defluxion,  or  catarrh, 

You  have  no  reason  to  beware. 

Beware  the  coxcomb's  idle  prate ; 

Chiefly,  my  son,  beware  of  that ; 

Be  sure,  when  you  behold  him,  fly 

Out  of  all  earshot,  or  you  die  ! '  " 

To  Rufus'  Hall  we  now  draw  near 
Where  he  was  summon'd  to  appear, 
Refute  the  charge  the  plaintiff  brought, 
Or  suffer  judgment  by  default. 
"  For  Heaven's  sake,  if  you  love  me,  wait 
One  moment !     I'll  be  with  you  straight." 

*  John  Beard.    He  married  a  daughter  of  Rich,  and  succeeded  him  ia  the  manage 
tuent  of  Covent  Garden  in  1761. 


FROM  THE  LA  TIN  CLASSICS.  531 

Glad  of  a  plausible  pretence — 
"  Sir,  I  must  beg  you  to  dispense 
With  my  attendance  in  the  court. 
My  legs  will  surely  suffer  for't." 
"  Nay,  prithee,  Carlos,  stop  a  while ! ' 
"  Faith,  sir,  in  law  I  have  no  skill. 
Besides,  I  have  no  time  to  spare, 
I  must  be  going,  you  know  where." 
**  Well,  I  protest,  I'm  doubtful  now, 
Whether  to  leave  my  suit  or  you  ! ' 
"  Me,  without  scruple  !  '    I  reply, 
*'  Me,  by  all  means,  sir  !  " — *'  No,  not. I. 
Allans,  Monsieur  !  '    'Twere  vain  (you  know) 
To  strive  with  a  victorious  foe, 
So  I  reluctantly  obey, 
And  follow,  where  he  leads  the  way, 
**  You  and  Newcastle  are  so  close  ; 
Still  hand  and  glove,  sir,  I  suppose?  ' 
"  Newcastle  (let  me  tell  you,  sir), 
Has  not  his  equal  anywhere." 
'*  Well.     There  indeed  your  fortune's  made! 
Faith,  sir,  you  understand  your  trade. 
Would  you  but  give  me  your  good  word  ! 
Just  introduce  me  to  my  lord. 
I  should  serve  charmingly  by  way 
Of  second  fiddle,  as  they  say  : 
What  think  you,  sir.-  'twere  a  good  jest. 
'Slife,  we  should  quickly  scout  the  rest." 
"Sir,  you  mistake  the  matter  far, 
We  have  no  second  fiddles  there." 
"  Richer  than  I  some  folks  may  be : 
More  learned,  but  it  hurts  not  me. 
Friends  though  he  has  of  different  kind, 
Each  has  his  proper  place  assign'd." 
"  Strange  matters  these  alleged  by  you  ! ' 
"  Strange  they  may  be,  but  they  are  true/ 
"  Well,  then,  I  vow  'tis  mighty  clever, 
Now  I  long  ten  times  more  than  ever 
To  be  advanced  extremely  near 
One  of  his  shining  character. 
Have  but  the  will — there  wants  no  more, 
'Tis  plain  enough  you  have  the  power. 
His  easy  temper  (that's  the  worst) 
He  knows,  and  is  so  shy  at  first. 
But  such  a  cavalier  as  you — 
Lord,  sir,  you'll  quickly  bring  him  to  1 


533  TRANSLA  TIONS 


Well ;  if  I  fail  in  my  design, 
Sir,  it  shall  be  no  fault  of  mine. 
If  by  the  saucy  servile  tribe 
Denied,  what  think  you  of  a  bribe  ? 
Shut  out  to-day,  not  die  with  sorrow, 
But  try  my  luck  again  to-morrow. 
Never  attempt  to  visit  him 
But  at  the  most  convenient  time, 
Attend  him  on  each  levee  day, 
And  there  my  humble  duty  pay. 
Labor,  like  this,  our  want  supplies  ; 
And  they  must  stoop,  who  mean  to  rise." 

While  thus  he  wittingly  harangued, 
For  which  you'll  guess  I  wish'd  him  hang'd, 
Campley,  a  friend  of  mine,  came  by, 
Who  knew  his  humor  more  than  I. 
We  stop,  salute,  and — "  Why  so  fast, 
Friend  Carlos?  whither  all  this  haste ?': 
Fired  at  the  thoughts  of  a  reprieve, 
I  pinch  him,  pull  him,  twitch  his  sleeve, 
Nod,  beckon,  bite  my  lips,  wink,  pout, 
Do  everything  but  speak  plain  out : 
While  he,  sad  dog,  from  the  beginning, 
Determined  to  mistake  my  meaning, 
Instead  of  pitying  my  curse, 
By  jeering  made  it  ten  times  worse. 
"  Campley,  what  secret  (pray  !)  was  that 
You  wanted  to  communicate  ! ' 
"  I  recollect.     But  'tis  no  matter. 
Carlos,  we'll  talk  of  that  hereafter. 
E'en  let  the  secret  rest.     'Twill  tell 
Another  time,  sir,  just  as  well." 
Was  ever  such  a  dismal  day  ? 
Unlucky  cur,  he  steals  away, 
And  leaves  me  half  bereft  of  life, 
At  mercy  of  the  butcher's  knife  ; 
When  sudden,  shouting  from  afar, 
See  his  antagonist  appear ! 
The  bailiff  seized  him  quick  as  thought., 
"  Ho,  Mr.  Scoundrel !  are  you  caught  ? 
Sir,  you  are  witness  to  the  arrest." 
"  Ay,  marry,  sir,  I'll  do  my  best." 
The  mob  huzzas.     Away  they  trudge 
Culprit  and  all,  before  the  judge. 
Meanwhile,  I,  luckily  enough, 
(Thanks  to  Apollo),  got  clear  off. 


FROM  THE  LA  TIN  CLASSICS.  533 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HORACE. 


LIB.  I.  ODE  IX. 

Vides,  ut  alta  stet  nive  candidum 
Soracte;   *    *    * 

SEEST  thou  yon  mountain  laden  with  deep  snow? 
The  groves  beneath  their  fleecy  burthen  bow, 
The  streams,  congealed,  forget  to  flow. 
Come,  thaw  the  cold,  and  lay  a  cheerful  pile 

Of  fuel  on  the  hearth  ; 
Broach  the  best  cask,  and  make  old  Winter  smile 

With  seasonable  mirth. 

This  be  our  part  —  let  Heaven  dispose  the  rest  ; 
If  Jove  command,  the  winds  shall  sleep, 
That  now  wa^e  war  upon*the  foamy  deep, 

And  gentle  gales  spring  from  the  balmy  west. 

E'en  let  us  shift  to-morrow  as  we  may, 

When  to-morrow's  passed  away, 

We  at  least  shall  have  to  Bay, 

We  have  lived  another  day  ; 
Your  auburn  locks  will  soon  be  silvered  o'er, 
Old  age  is  at  our  heels,  and  youth  returns  no  more. 


LIB.  I.  ODE  XXXVIII. 

Pereicos  odi,  puer,  apparatus. 

BOY,  I  hate  their  empty  shows, 

Persian  garlands  I  detest, 
Bring  not  me  the  late-blown  rose, 

Lingering  after  all  the  rest. 
Plainer  myrtle  pleases  me, 

Thus  outstretched  beneath  my  vine 
Myrtle  more  becoming  thee, 

Waiting  with  thy  master's  wine. 


534  TRANSLATIONS 


ANOTHER  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  SAME  ODE.* 

BOY  !  I  detest  all  Persian  fopperies, 
Fillet-bound  garlands  are  to  me  disgusting ; 
Task  not  thyself  with  any  search,  I  charge  thee, 

Where  latest  roses  linger, 

Bring  me  alone  (for  thou  wilt  find  that  readily) 
Plain  myrtle.     Myrtle  neither  will  disparage 
Thee  occupied  to  serve  me,  or  me  drinking 

Beneath  my  vine's  cool  shelter. 


LIB.  II.  ODE  XVI. 

Otium  Divos  rogat  in  patent!. 

EASE  is  the  weary  merchant's  prayer, 
Who  ploughs  by  night  the  ^Egean  flood. 

When  neither  moon  nor  stars  appear, 
Or  faintly  glimme*  through  the  cloud. 

For  ease  the  Mede  with  quiver  graced, 
'  For  ease  the  Thracian  hero  sighs, 
Delightful  ease  all  pant  to  taste, 
A  blessing  which  no  treasure  buys. 

For  neither  gold  can  lull  to  rest, 
Nor  all  a  Consul's  guard  beat  off 

The  tumults  of  a  troubled  breast, 
The  cares  that  haunt  a  gilded  roof. 

Happy  the  man  whose  table  shows 
A  few  clean  ounces  of  old  plate, 

No  fear  intrudes  on  his  repose, 
No  sordid  wishes  to  be  great. 

Poor  short  lived  things,  what  plans  we  lay  ! 

Ah,  why  forsake  our  native  home  ! 
To  distant  climates  speed  away  ; 

For  self  sticks  close  where'er  we  roam. 


*  Dr.  John  Johnson  remarks  upon  this  second  translation,  "  English  Sapphics  have 
been  attempted,  but  with  little  success,  because  in  our  language  we  have  no  certain 
rules  to  determine  the  quantity.  The  following  version  was  made  merely  in  the  way 
of  experiment  how  far  it  might  be  possible  to  imitate  a  Latin  Sapphic  in  English  with- 
out any  attention  to  that  circumstance."  Poems,  1815,  vol.  iii.  8vo,  p.  127  ;  12mo,  p.  91. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  535 

fare  follows  hard,  and  soon  o'ertakes 

The  well-rigged  ship,  the  warlike  steed, 
Her  destined  quarry  ne'er  forsakes, 

Not  the  wind  flies  with  half  her  speed. 

From  anxious  fears  of  future  ill 

Guard  well  the  cheerful,  happy  Now  ; 
Gild  e'en  your  sorrows  with  a  smile, 

No  blessing  is  unmixed  below. 

Thy  neighing  steeds  and  lowing  herds, 
Thy  numerous  flocks  around  thee  graze, 

And  the  best  purple  Tyre  affords 
Thy  robe  magnificent  displays. 

On  me  indulgent  Heaven  bestowed 

A  rural  mansion,  neat  and  small  ; 
Tii is  lyre  ; — and  as  for  yonder  crowd, 

The  happiness  to  hate  them  all. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VIRGIL. 

^ENEID,  BOOK  VIII.  LINE  18. 

THUS  Italy  was  moved — nor  did  the  chief 

.ZEneas  in  his  mind  less  tumult  feel. 

'On  every  side  his  ;mxious  thought  he  turns, 

Restless,  unfixed,  not  knowing  what  to  choose. 

And  as  a  cistern  that  in  brim  of  brass 

Confines  the  crystal  flood,  if  chance  the  sun 

Smite  on  it,  or  the  moon's  resplendent  orb, 

The  quivering  light  now  flashes  on  the  walls, 

Now  leaps  uncertain  to  the  vaulted  roof : 

Such  were  the  wavering  motions  of  his  mind. 

'Twas  night — and  weary  nature  sunk  to  rest. 

The  birds,  the  bleating  flocks,  were  heard  no  more. 

At  length,  on  the  cold  ground,  beneath  the  damp 

And  dewy  vault,  fast  by  the  river's  brink, 

The  father  of  his  country  sought  repose. 

When  lo  !  among  the  spreading  poplar  boughs, 

Forth  from  his  pleasant  stream,  propitious  rose 

The  god  of  Tiber  :  clear  transparent  gauze 

Infolds  his  loins,  his  brows  with  reeds  are  crowned : 


S36  TRANSLATIONS 


And  these  his  gracious  words  to  soothe  his  care  : 

"  Heaven-born,*  who  bring'st  our  kindred  home  again, 
Rescued,  and  giv'st  eternity  to  Troy, 
Long  have  Laurentum  and  the  Latian  plains 
Expected  thee  ;  behold  thy  fixed  abode. 
Fear  not  the  threats  of  war,  the  storm  is  passed, 
The  gods  appeased.     For  proof  that  what  thou  hearest 
Is  no  vain  forgery  or  delusive  dream, 
Beneath  the  grove  that  borders  my  green  bank, 
A  milk-white  swine,  with  thirty  milk-white  young, 
Shall  greet  thy  wondering  eyes.     Mark  well  the  place  ; 
For  'tis  thy  place  of  rest,  there  end  thy  toils  : 
There,  twice  ten  years  elapsed,  fair  Alba's  walls 
Shall  rise,  fair  Alba,  by  Ascanius'  hand. 
Thus  shall  it  be — now  listen,  while  I  teach 
The  means  to  accomplish  these  events  at  hand. 
The  Arcadians  here,  a  race  from  Pallas  f  sprung, 
Following  Evander's  standard  and  his  fate, 
High  on  these  mountains,  a  well  chosen  spot, 
Have  built  a  city  ;  for  their  grandsire's  sake 
Named  Pallanteum.     These  perpetual  war 
Wage  with  the  Latians  :  joined  in  faithful  league 
And  arms  confederate,  add  them  to  your  camp. 
Myself  between  my  winding  banks  will  speed 
Your  well  oared  barks  to  stem  the  opposing  tide. 
Rise,  goddess-born,  arise ;  and  with  the  first 
Declining  stars  seek  Juno  in  thy  prayer, 
And  vanquish  all  her  wrath  with  suppliant  vows. 
When  conquest  crowns  thee,  then  remember  me. 
I  am  the  Tiber,  whose  cserulean  stream 
Heaven  favors  ;  I  with  copious  flood  divide 
These  grassy  banks,  and  cleave  the  fruitful  meads. 
My  mansion,  this — and  lofty  cities  crown 
My  fountain  head." — He  spoke  and  sought  the  deep, 
And  plunged  his  form  beneath  the  closing  flood. 
JEneas  at  the  morning  dawn  awoke, 
And,  rising,  with  uplifted  eye  beheld 
The  orient  sun,  then  dipped  his  palms,  and  scooped 
The  brimming  stream,^  and  thr.s  addressed  the  skies: 
"  Ye  nymphs,  Laurentian  nymphs,  who  feed  the  source 
Of  many  a  stream,  and  thou,  with  thy  blest  flood, 
O  Tiber  !  hear,  accept  me,  and  afford, 

•  ..  —  .1.  ,-.,.,  „_ . — .         .. •       —  •••!.         .-....—     —I.  I  I       .         .—  * 

*  ^Eneas  was  the  son  of  Venus  and  Anchises. 

t  Pallas,  King  of  Arcadia,  was   the  great-grandfather  of  Evander,  who  migrated  to 
Italy  about  sixty  years  before  the  Trojan  war. 
$  Threw  it  down  as  a  libation. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  537 

length  afford,  a  shelter  from  my  woes. 
Where'er  in  secret  cavern  under  ground 
Thy  waters  sleep,  where'er  they  spring  to  light, 
'Since  thou  hast  pity  for  a  wretch  like  me, 
My  offerings  and  my  vows  shall  wait  thee  still : 
Great  horned  Father  of  Hesperian  floods, 
Be  gracious  now,  and  ratify  thy  word." 
He  said,  and  chose  two  galleys  from  his  fleet, 
Fits  them  with  oars,  and  clothes  the  crew  in  arms. 
When  lo  !  astonishing  and  pleasing  sight, 
The  milk-white  dam,  with  her  unspotted  brood, 
Lay  stretched  upon  the  bank,  beneath  the  grove. 
To  thee,  the  pious  Prince,  Juno,  to  thee 
Devotes  them  all,  all  on  thine  altar  bleed. 
That  livelong  night  old  Tiber  smoothed  his  flood, 
And  so  restrained  it  that  it  seemed  to  stand 
Motionless  as  a  pool,  or  silent  lake, 
That  not  a  billow  might  resist  their  oars. 
With  cheerful  sound  of  exhortation  soon 
Their  voyage  they  begin  ;  the  pitchy  keel 
Slides  through  the  gentle  deep,  the  quiet  stream 
Admires  the  unwonted  burthen  that  it  bears, 
Well  polished  arms,  and  vessels  painted  gay. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  various  trees,  between 
The  umbrageous  branches  of  the  spreading  groves, 
They  cut  their  liquid  way,  nor  day  nor  night 
They  slack  their  course,  unwinding  as  they  go 
The  long  meanders  of  the  peaceful  tide. 

The  glowing  sun  was  in  meridian  height, 
When  from  afar  they  saw  the  humble  walls, 
And  the  few  scattered  cottages,  which  now 
The  Roman  power  has  equalled  with  the  clouds  ; 
But  such  was  then  Evander's  scant  domain, 
They  steer  to  shore,  and  hasten  to  the  town. 

It  chanced  the  Arcadian  monarch  on  that  day, 
Before  the  walls,  beneath  a  shady  grove, 
Was  celebrating  high,  in  solemn  feast, 
Alcides  and  his  tutelary  gods. 
Pallas,  his  son,  was  there,  and  there  the  chief 
Of  all  his  youth  ;  with  these,  a  worthy  tribe, 
His  poor  but  venerable  senate,  burnt 
Sweet  incense,  and  their  altars  smoked  with  blood. 
Soon  as  they  saw  the  towering  masts  approach, 
Sliding  between  the  trees,  while  the  crew  rest 
Upon  the  silent  oars,  amazed  they  rose, 
Not  without  fear,  and  all  forsook  the  feast. 


338  TRANSLATIONS 


But  Pallas,  undismayed,  his  javelin  seized, 

Rushed  to  the  bank,  and  from  a  rising  ground 

Forbade  them  to  disturb  the  sacred  rites. 

"  Ye  stranger  youth  I  What  prompts  you  to  explore 

This  untried  way  ?  and  whither  do  ye  steer  ? 

Whence,  and  who  are  ye  ?    Bring  ye  peace  or  war  ?" 

jEneas  from  his  lofty  deck  holds  forth 

The  peaceful  olive  branch,  and  thus  replies  : 

"  Trojans  and  enemies  to  the  Latian  state, 

Whom  they  with  unprovoked  hostilities 

Have  driven  away,  thou  seest.     We  seek  Evander — 

Say  this — and  say  beside,  the  Trojan  chiefs 

Are  come,  and  seek  his  friendship  and  his  aid." 

Pallas  with  wonder  heard  that  awful  name, 

And,  "  Whosoe'er  thou  art,"  he  cried,  "  come  forth; 

Bear  thine  own  tidings  to  my  father's  ear, 

And  be  a  welcome  guest  beneath  our  roof." 

He  said,  and  pressed  the  stranger  to  his  breast : 

Then  led  him  from  the  river  to  the  grove, 

Where  courteous,  thus  ^Eneas  greets  the  king : 

"  Best  of  the  Grecian  race,  to  whom  I  bow 

(So  wills  my  fortune)  suppliant,  and  stretch  forth 

In  sign  of  amity  this  peaceful  branch, 

I  feared  thee  not,  although  I  knew  thee  well 

A  Grecian  leader,  born  in  Arcady, 

And  kinsman  of  the  Atridae.*    Me  my  virtue, 

That  means  no  wrong  to  thee,  the  Oracles, 

Our  kindred  families  allied  of  old, 

And  thy  renown  diffused  through  every  land, 

Have  all  conspired  to  bind  in  friendship  to  thee, 

And  send  rne  not  unwilling  to  thy  shores. 

Dardanus,  author  of  the  Trojan  state, 

(So  say  the  Greeks)  was  fair  Electra's  son  ; 

Electra  boasted  Atlas  for  her  sire, 

Whose  shoulders  high  sustain  the  aethereal  orbs. 

Your  sire  is  Mercury,  whom  Maia  bore, 

Sweet  Maia,  on  Cyllene's  hoary  top. 

Her,  if  we  credit  aught  tradition  old, 

Atlas  of  yore,  the  selfsame  Atlas,  claimed 

His  daughter.     Thus  united  close  in  blood, 

Thy  race  and  ours  one  common  sire  confess. 

With  these  credentials  fraught,  I  would  not  send 

Ambassadors  with  artful  phrase  to  sound 

And  win  thee  by  degrees — but  came  myself — 


*  The  son*  of  Atreus— Agamemnon  and  Menelaus. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  539 

Me,  therefore,  me  thou  seest ;  my  life  the  stake  : 
'Tis  I,  ^Eneas,  who  implore  thine  aid. 
Should  Daunia*  that  now  aims  the  blow  at  thee, 
Prevail  to  conquer  us,  naught  then,  they  think, 
Will  hinder  but  Hesperia  must  be  theirs, 
All  theirs,  from  the  upper  to  the  nether  sea. 
Take  then  our  friendship,  and  return  us  thine. 
We  too  have  courage,  we  have  noble  minds, 
And  youth  well  tried,  and  exercised  in  arms." 

Thus  spoke  ^neas  ; — He  with  fixed  regard 
Surveyed  him  speaking,  features,  form,  and  mien. 
Then  briefly  thus — "  Thou  noblest  of  thy  name, 
How  gladly  do  I  take  thee  to  my  heart, 
How  gladly  thus  confess  thee  for  a  friend  ! 
In  thee  I  trace  Anchises  ;  his  thy  speech, 
Thy  voice,  thy  countenance.     For  I  well  remember 
Many  a  day  since,  when  Priam  journeyed  forth 
To  Salamis,  to  see  the  land  where  dwelt 
Hesione,  his  sister,  he  pushed  on 
Even  to  Arcadia's  frozen  bounds.     'Twas  then 
The  bloom  of  youth  was  glowing  on  my  cheek  ; 
Much  I  admired  the  Trojan  chiefs,  and  much 
Their  king,  the  son  of  great  Laomedon, 
But  most  Anchises,  towering  o'er  them  all. 
A  youthful  longing  seized  me  to  accost 
The  hero,  and  embrace  him  ;  I  drew  near, 
And  gladly  led  him  to  the  walls  of  Pheneus. 
Departing,  he  distinguished  me  with  gifts, 
A  costly  quiver  stored  with  Lycian  darts, 
A  robe  inwove  with  gold,  Avith  gold  embossed, 
Two  bridles,  those  which  Pallas  uses  now. 
The  friendly  league  thou  hast  solicited 
I  give  thee,  therefore,  and  to-morrow  all 
My  chosen  youth  shall  wait  on  your  return. 
Meanwhile,  since  thus  in  friendship  ye  are  come, 
Rejoice  with  us,  and  join  to  celebrate  . 

These  annual  rites,  which  may  not  be  delayed, 
And  be  at  once  familiar  at  our  board." 

He  said,  and  bade  replace  the  feast  removed} 
Himself  upon  a  grassy  bank  disposed 
The  crew  ;  but  for  ^neas  ordered  forth 
A  couch  spread  with  a  lion's  tawny  shag, 
And  bade  him  share  the  honors  of  his  throne. 
The  appointed  youth  with  glad  alacrity 

*  Part  of  Apulia. 


54°  TRANSLA  TIONS 

Assist  the  laboring  priest  to  load  the  board 

With  roasted  entrails  of  the  slaughtered  beeves, 

Well  kneaded  bread,  and  mantling  bowls.    Avell  pleased 

^neas  and  the  Trojan  youth  regale 

On  the  huge  length  of  a  well  pastured  chine. 

Hunger  appeased,  and  tables  all  despatched, 
Thus  spake  Evander:  "  Superstition  here, 
In  this  old  solemn  feasting  has  no  part. 
No,  Trojan  friend,  from  utmost  danger  saved, 
In  gratitude  this  worship  we  renew. 
Behold  that  rock  which  nods  above  the  vale, 
Those  bulks  of  broken  stone  dispersed  around, 
How  desolate  the  shattered  cave  appears, 
And  what  a  ruin  spreads  the  encumbered  plain. 
Within  this  pile,  but  far  within,  was  once 
The  den  of  Cacus  ;  dire  his  hateful  form 
That  shunned  the  day,  half  monster  and  half  man. 
Blood  newly  shed  streamed  ever  on  the  ground 
Smoking,  and  many  a  visage  pale  and  wan 
Nailed  at  his  gate,  hung  hideous  to  the  sight. 
Vulcan  begot  the  brute  :  vast  wa,s  his  size, 
And  from  his  throat  he  belched  his  father's  fires. 
But  the  day  came  that  brought  us  what  we  wished, 
The  assistance  and  the  presence  of  a  God. 
Flushed  with  his  victory,  and  the  spoils  he  won 
From  triple-formed  Geryon  lately  slain, 
The  great  avenger,  Hercules,  appeared. 
Hither  he  drove  his  stately  bulls,  and  poured 
His  herds  along  the  vale.     But  the  sly  thief 
Cacus,  that  nothing  might  escape  his  hand 
Of  villany  or  fraud,  drove  from  the  stalls 
Four  of  the  lordliest  of  his  bulls,  and  four 
The  fairest  of  his  heifers  ;  by  the  tail 
He  dragged  them  to  his  den,  that,  there  concealed, 
No  footsteps  might  betray  the  dark  abode. 
.And  now  his  herd,  with  provender  sufficed, 
Alcides  would  be  gone  :  they  as  they  went 
Still  bellowing  loud,  made  the  deep  echoing  woods 
And  distant  hills  resound  :  when  hark !  one  GJJ, 
Imprisoned  close  within  the  vast  recess, 
Lows  in  return,  and  frustrates  all  his  hope. 
Then  fury  seized  Alcides,  and  his  breast 
With  indignation  heaved  :  grasping  his  club 
Of  knotted  oak,  swift  to  the  mountain  top 
He  ran,  he  flew.     Then  first  was  Cacus  seen 
To  tremble,  and  his  eyes  bespoke  his  fears. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  54* 

Swift  as  an  eastern  blast  he  sought  his  den. 
And  dread  increasing,  winged  him  as  he  went. 
Drawn  up  in  iron  siings  above  the  gate, 
A  rock  was  hung  enormous.     Such  his  haste, 
He  burst  the  chains  and  dropped  it  at  the  door, 
Then  grappled  it  with  iron  work  within 
Of  bolts  and  bars  by  Vulcan's  art  contrived. 
Scarce  was  he  fast,  when  panting  for  revenge 
Came  Hercules  ;  he  gnashed  his  toeth  with  rage, 
And  quick  as  lightning  glanced  his  eyes  around 
In  quest  of  entrance.     Fiery  red  and  stung 
With  indignation,  thrice  he  wheeled  his  course 
About  the  mountain  ;  thrice,  but  thrice  in  vain, 
He  strove  to  force  the  quarry  at  the  gate, 
And  thrice  sat  down  o'erwearied  in  the  vale. 
There  stood  a  pointed  rock,  abrupt  and  rude, 
That  high  o'erlooked  the  rest,  close  at  the  back 
Of  the  fell  monster's  den,  where  birds  obscene 
Of  ominous  note  resorted,  choughs  and  daws. 
This,  as  it  leaned  obliquely  to  the  left, 
Threatening  the  stream  below,  he  from  the  right 
Pushed  with  his  utmost  strength,  and  to  and  fro 
He  shook  the  mass,  loosening  its  lowest  base  ; 
Then  shoved  it  from  its  seat ;  down  fell  the  pile  ; 
Sky  thundered  at  the  fall  ;  the  barks  give  way, 
The  affrighted  stream  flows  upward  to  his  source. 
Behold  the  kennel  of  the  brute  exposed, 
The  gloomy  vault  laid  open.     So,  if  chance 
Earth  yawning  to  the  centre  should  disclose 
The  mansions,  the  pale  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Loathed  by  the  gods,  such  would  the  gulf  appear, 
And  the  ghosts  tremble  at  the  sight  of  day. 
The  monster  braying  with  unusual  din 
Within  his  hollow  lair,  and  sore  amazed 
To  see  such  sudden  inroads  of  the  light, 
Alcides  pressed  him  close  with  what  at  hand 
Lay  readiest,  stumps  of  trees,  and  fragments  huge 
Of  millstone  size.     He,  (for  escape  was  none) 
Wondrous  to  tell !  forth  from  his  gorge  discharged 
A  smoky  cloud  that  darkened  all  the  den  ; 
Wreath  after  wreath  he  vomited  amain, 
The  smothering  vapor  mixed  with  fiery  sparks. 
No  sight  could  penetrate  the  veil  obscure. 
The  hero,  more  provoked,  endured  not  this, 
But  with  a  headlong  leap  he  rushed  to  where 
The  thickest  cloud  enveloped  his  abode. 


542  TRANSLATIONS 


There  grasped  he  Cacus,  spite  of  all  his  fires, 

Till  crushed  within  his  arms,  the  monster  shows 

His  bloodless  throat,  now  dry  with  panting  hard, 

And  his  pressed  eyeballs  start.     Soon  he  tears  down 

The  barricade  of  rock,  the  dark  abyss 

Lies  open  ;  and  the  imprisoned  bulls,  the  theft 

He  had  with  oaths  denied,  are  brought  to  light ; 

By  the  heels  the  miscreant  carcass  is  dragged  forth, 

His  face,  his  eyes,  all  terrible,  his  breast 

Beset  with  bristles,  and  his  sooty  jaws 

Are  viewed  with  wonder  never  to  be  cloyed. 

Hence  the  celebrity  thou  seest,  and  hence 

This  festal  day.     Potitius  first  enjoined 

Posterity  these  solemn  rites  ;  he  first 

With  those  who  bear  the  great  Pinarian  name 

To  Hercules  devoted,  in  the  grove 

This  altar  built,  deemed  sacred  in  the  highest 

By  us,  and  sacred  ever  to  be  deemed. 

Come  then,  my  friends,  and  bind  your  youthful  brows 

In  praise  of  such  deliverance,  and  hold  forth 

The  brimming  cup  ;  your  deities  and  ours 

Are  now  the  same,  then  drink,  and  freely  too." 

So  saying,  he  twisted  round  his  reverend  locks 

A  variegated  poplar  wreath,  and  filled 

His  right  hand  with  a  consecrated  bowl. 

At  once  all  pour  libations  on  the  board, 

All  offer  prayer.     And  now  the  radiant  sphere 

Of  day  descending,  eventide  drew  near, 

When  first  Potitius  with  the  priests  advanced, 

Begirt  with  skins,  and  torches  in  their  hands. 

High  piled  with  meats  of  savory  taste,  they  ranged 

The  chargers,  and  renewed  the  grateful  feast. 

Then  came  the  Salii,  crowned  with  poplar  too, 

Circling  the  blazing  altars  ;  here  the  youth 

Advanced,  a  choir  harmonious,  there  were  heard 

The  reverend  seers  responsive  ;  praise  they  sung, 

Much  praise  in  honor  of  Alcides'  deeds  ; 

How  first  with  infant  gripe  two  serpents  huge 

He  strangled,  sent  from  Juno ;  next  they  sung, 

How  Troja  and  CEchalia  he  destroyed, 

Fair  cities  both,  and  many  a  toilsome  task 

Beneath  Eurystheus  (so  his  stepdame  willed) 

Achieved  victorious.     "  Thou,  the  cloud-born  pair, 

Hylseus  fierce  and  Pholus,  monstrous  twins, 

Thou  slew'st  the  Minotaur,  the  plague  of  Crete, 

And  the  vast  lion  of  the  Nernean  rock, 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  543 

Thee  Hell,  and  Cerberus,  hell's  porter,  feared, 
Stretched  in  his  den  upon  his  half  gnawed  bones. 
Thee  no  abhorred  form,  not  even  the  vast 
Typhoeus  could  appal,  though  clad  in  arms. 
Hail,  true  born  son  of  Jove,  among  the  gods 
At  length  enrolled,  nor  least  illustrious  thou. 
Haste  thee  propitious,  and  approve  our  songs  :" — 
Thus  hymned  the  chorus  ;  above  all  they  sing 
The  cave  of  Cacus,  and  the  flames  he  breathed. 
The  whole  grove  echoes,  and  the  hills  rebound. 

The  rites  performed,  all  hasten  to  the  town. 
The  king,  bending  with  age,  held  as  he  went 
.ZEneas,  and  his  Pallas  by  the  hand, 
With  much  variety  of  pleasing  talk 
Shortening  the  way.     JEneas,  with  a  smile, 
Looks  round  him,  charmed  with  the  delightful  scene, 
And  many  a  question  asks,  and  much  he  learns 
Of  heroes  far  renowned  in  ancient  times. 
Then  spake  Evander.     "  These  extensive  groves 
Were  once  inhabited  by  fawns  and  nymphs 
Produced  beneath  their  shades,  and  a  rude  race 
Of  men,  the  progeny  uncouth  of  elms 
And  knotted  oaks.     They  n<>  i< •; iM-ment  knew 
Of  laws  or  manners  civilized,  to  yoke 
The  steer,  with  forecast  provident  to  store 
The  hoarded  grain,  or  manage  what  they  had, 
But  brows' •(!  like  beasts  upon  the  leafy  boughs, 
Or  fed  voracious  on  their  hunted  prey. 
A  a  exile  from  Olympus,  and  expelled 
His  native  realm  by  thunder-bearing  Jove, 
First  Saturn  came.     He  from  the  mountains  drew 
This  herd  of  men  untractable  and  fierce, 
And  gave  them  laws  :  and  called  his  hiding  place, 
This  growth  of  forests,  Latium.     Such  the  peace  ^ 

His  land  possessed,  the  golden  age  was  then. 
So  famed  in  story  ;  till  by  slow  degrees 
Far  other  times,  and  of  far  different  hue, 
Succeeded,  thirst  of  gold  and  thirst  of  blood. 
Then  came  Ausonian  bands,  and  armed  hosts     . 
From  Sicily,  and  Latium  often  changed 
Her  master  and  her  name.     At  length  arose 
Kings,  of  whom  Tybris  of  gigantic  form 
Was  chief ;  and  we  Italians  since  have  called 
The  river  by  his  name  ;  thus  Albula 
(So  was  the  country  called  in  ancient  days) 
Was  quite  forgot.     Me  from  my  native  land 


5  44  TRANSLA  TIONS 


An  exile,  through  the  dangerous  ocean  driven, 
Resistless  fortune  and  relentless  fate, 
Placed  where  thou  seest  me.     Phoebus,  and 
The  nymph  Carmentis,  with  maternal  care 
Attendant  on  my  wanderings,  fixed  me  here." 

[Ten  lines  omitted."! 

He  said,  and  showed  him  the  Tarpeian  rock, 
And  the  rude  spot  where  now  the  capitol 
Stands  all  magnificent  and  bright  with  gold, 
Then  overgrown  with  thorns.     And  yet  even  then 
The  swains  beheld  that  sacred  scene  with  awe  ; 
The  grove,  the  rock,  inspired  religious  fear. 
<k  This  grove,"  he  said.  "  that  crowns  the  lofty  top 
Of  this  fair  hill,  some  deity,  we  know, 
Inhabits,  but  what  deity  we  doubt. 
The  Arcadians  speak  of  Jupiter  himself, 
That  they  have  often  seen  him,  shaking  here 
His  gloomy  -35gis,  while  the  thunder  storms 
Came  rolling  all  round  him.     Turn  thine  eyes, 
Behold  that  ruin  ;  those  dismantled  walls, 

Where  once  two  towns,  Janiculum , 

By  Janus  this,  and  that  by  Saturn  built, 

Saturnia."     Such  discourse  brought  them  beneatr 

The  roof  of  poor  Evander ;  thence  they  saw, 

Where  now  the  proud  and  stately  form  stands, 

The  grazing  herds  wide  scattered  o'er  the  field. 

Soon  as  he  entered — "  Hercules,"  he  said, 

"  Victorious  Hercules,  on  this  threshold  trod, 

These  walls  contained  him,  humble  as  they  are, 

Dare  to  despise  magnificence,  my  friend, 

Prove  thy  divine  descent  by  worth  divine. 

Nor  view  with  haughty  scorn  this  mean  abode." 

So  saying,  he  led  JEneas  by  the  hand, 

And  placed  him  on  a  cushion  stuffed  with  leaves. 

Spread  with  the  skin  of  a  Lybistian  bear. 

[The  episode  of  Venus  and  Vulcan  omitted.] 
While  thus  in  Lenmos  Vulcan  was  employed, 
Awakened  by  the  gentle  dawn  of  day, 
And  the  shrill  song  of  birds  beneath  the  eaves 
Of  his  low  mansion,  old  Evander  rose, 
riis  tunic,  and  the  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  his  good  sword  well  girded  to  his  side. 
A  panther's  skin  dependent  from  his  left, 
Arid  over  his  right  shoulder  thrown  aslant, 
Thus  was  he  clad.     Two  mastiffs  followed  him 
His  whole  retinue  and  his  nightly  guard. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  545 


THE  SALAD,  BY  VIRGIL  * 

THE  winter  night  now  well  nigh  worn  away, 

The  wakeful  cock  proclaimed  approaching  day, 

When  Simulus,  poor  tenant  of  a  farm 

Of  narrowest  limits,  heard  the  shrill  alarm, 

Yawned,  stretched  his  limbs,  and  anxious  to  provide 

Against  the  pangs  of  hunger  urisupplied, 

By  slow  degrees  his  tattered  bed  forsook, 

And  poking  in  the  dark,  explored  the  nook 

Where  embers  slept  with  ashes  heaped  around, 

And  with  burnt  fingers-ends  the  treasure  found. 

It  chanced  that  from  a  brand  beneath  his  nose, 
Sure  proof  of  latent  fire,  some  smoke  arose  ; 
When  trimming  with  a  pin  the  incrusted  tow, 
And  stooping  it  towards  the  coals  below, 
He  toils,  with  cheeks  distended,  to  excite 
The  lingering  flame,  and  gains  at  length  a  light. 
With  prudent  heed  he  spreads  his  hands  before 
The  quivering  lamp,  and  opes  his  granary  door. 
Small  was  his  stock,  but  taking  for  the  day 
A  measured  stint  of  twice  eight  pounds  away, 
With  these  his  mill  he  seeks.     A  shelf  at  hand, 
Fixed  in  the  wall,  affords  his  lamp  a  stand  : 
Then  baring  both  his  arms — a  sleeveless  coat 
He  girds,  the  rough  exuviae  of  a  goat : 
And  with  a  rubber,  for  that  use  designed, 
Cleansing  his  mill  within — begins  to  grind  ; 
Each  hand  has  its  employ  ;  laboring  amain, 
This  turns  the  winch,  while  that  supplies  the  grain. 
The  stone  revolving  rapidly,  now  glows, 
And  the  bruised  corn  a  mealy  current  flows  ; 
While  he  to  make  his  heavy  labor  light 
Takes  off  his  left  hand  to  relieve  his  right ; 
Arid  chants  with  rudest  accent,  to  beguile 
His  ceaseless  toil,  as  rude  a  strain  the  while. 
And  now,  "  Dame  Cybale,  come  forth ! '    he  cries  ; 
But  Cybale,  still  slumbering,  nought  replies. 

From  Afric  she,  the  swain's  sole  serving-maid, 
Whose  face  and  form  alike  her  birth  betrayed. 
With  woolly  locks,  lips  turmid,  sable  skin. 
Wide  bosom,  udders  flaccid,  belly  thin, 

*  "  This  singular  poem,  which  the  learned  and  judicious  Heyne  seems  inclined 
think  a  translation  of  Virgil's  from  the  Greek  of  Parthenius,  was  translated  into 
lish  by  Cowpei ,  during  his  depressive  malady,  June,  1799," — Hayley,  1803. 


546  TRANSLATIONS 


Legs  slender,  broad  and  most  misshapen  feet, 
Chapped  into  chinks,  and  parched  with  solar  heat. 
Such.,  summoned  oft,  she  came  ;  at  his  command 
Fresh  fuel  heaped,  the  sleeping  embers  fanned, 
And  made  in  haste  her  simmering  skillet  steam, 
Replenished  newly  from  the  neighboring  stream. 

The  labors  of  the  mill  performed,  a  sieve 
The  mingled  flour  and  bran  must  next  receive, 
Which  shaken  oft  shoots  Ceres  through  refined, 
And  better  dressed,  her  husks  all  left  behind. 
This  done  at  once,  his  future  plain  repast 
Unleavened  on  a  shaven  board  he  cast, 
With  tepid  lymph  first  largely  soaked  it  all, 
Then  gathered  it  with  both  hands  to  a  ball, 
And  spreading  it  again  with  both  hands  wide. 
With  sprinkled  salt  the  stiffened  mass  supplied ; 
At  length  the  stubborn  substance,  duly  wrought, 
Takes  from  his  palms  impressed  the  shape  it  ought} 
Becomes  an  orb — and  quartered  into  shares, 
The  faithful  mark  of  just  division  bears. 
Last,  on  his  hearth  it  finds  convenient  space, 
For  Cybale  before  had  swept  the  place, 
And  there,  with  tiles  and  embers  overspread, 
She  leaves  it — reeking  in  its  sultry  bed. 

Nor  Simulus,  while  Vulcan  thus  alone 
His  part  performed,  proves  heedless  of  his  own, 
But  sedulous,  not  merely  to  subdue 
His  hunger,  but  to  please  his  palate  too, 
Prepares  more  savory  food.     His  chimney  side 
Could  boast  no  gammon,  salted  well  and  dried, 
Arid  hooked  behind  him  ;  but  sufficient  store 
Of  bundled  anise,  and  a  cheese  it  bore  ; 
A  broad  round  cheese,  which,  through  its  centre  strung 
With  a  tough  broom  twig,  in  the  corner  hung ; 
The  prudent  hero,  therefore,  with  address 
And  quick  dispatch,  now  seeks  another  mess. 

Close  to  his  cottage  lay  a  garden  ground, 
With  reeds  and  osiers  sparely  girt  around . 
Small  was  the  spot,  but  liberal  to  produce  ; 
Nor  wanted  aught  that  serves  a  peasant's  use, 
And  sometimes  even  the  rich  would  borrow  thencet 
Although  its  till-age  was  his  sole  expense. 
For  oft  as  from  his  toils  abroad  he  ceased, 
Home-bound  by  weather,  or  some  stated  feast, 
His  debt  of  culture  here  he  duly  paid, 
And  only  left  the  plough  to  wield  the  spade. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  547 

He  knew  to  give  each  plant  the  soil  it  needs. 

To  drill  the  ground  and  cover  close  the  seeds  ; 

And  could  with  ease  compel  the  wanton  rill 

To  turn  and  wind  obedient  to  his  will. 

There  flourished  star-wort,  and  the  branching  beet. 

The  sorrel  acid  and  the  mallow  sweet, 

The  skerret,  and  the  leek's  aspiring  kind, 

The  noxious  poppy — quencher  of  the  mind  ! 

Salubrious  sequel  of  a  sumptuous  board, 

The  lettuce  and  the  long  huge- bellied  gourd  ; 

But  these  (for  none  his  appetite  controlled 

With  stricter  sway)  the  thrifty  rustic  sold  : 

With  broom  twigs  neatly  bound,  each  kind  apart. 

11<>  bore  them  ever  to  the  public  mart : 

Whence  laden  still,  but  with  a  lighter  load. 

Of  cash  well  earned,  he  took  his  homeward  road, 

Expending  seldom,  ere  he  quitted  Rome, 

His  gains  in  flesh-meat  for  a  feast  at  home. 

There,  at  no  cost,  on  onions,  rank  and  red, 

Or  the  curled  endive's  bitter  leaf  he  fed  : 

On  seal  lions  sliced,  or  with  a  sensual  gust, 

On  rockets — foul  provocatives  of  lust! 

Nor  even  shunned  with  smarting  gums  to  press 

Nasturtium — pungent  tace  distorting  mess  ! 

Some  such  regale  now  also  in  his  thought, 
With  hasty  steps  his  garden  ground  he  sought ; 
There  delving  with  his  hands,  he  first  displaced 
Four  plants  of  garlic,  large,  and  rooted  fast ; 
The  tender  tops  of  parsley  next  he  culls, 
Then  the  old  rue  bush  shudders  as  he  pulls  ; 
And  a  coriander  last  to  these  succeeds 
That  hangs  on  slightest  threads  her  trembling  seeds 

Placed  near  his  sprightly  fire,  he  now  demands 
The  mortar  at  his  sable  servant's  hands , 
When  stripping  all  his  garlic  first,  he  tore 
The  exterior  coats,  and  cast  them  on  the  floor, 
Then  cast  away  with  like  contempt  the  skin, 
Flimsier  concealment  of  the  cloves  within. 
These  searched,  arid  perfect  found,  he  one  by  one 
Rinsed,  and  disposed  within  the  hollow  stone. 
Salt  added,  and  a  lump  of  salted  cheese, 
With  his  injected  herb  he  covered  these, 
And  tucking  with  his  left  his  tunic  tight. 
And  seizing  fast  the  pestle  with  his  right, 
The  garlic  bruising  first  he  soon  expressed, 
And  mixed  the  various  juices  of  the  rest. 


54^  TRANSLATIONS 


He  grinds,  and  by  degrees  his  herbs  below, 

Lost  in  each  other,  their  own  powers  forego, 

And  with  the  cheese  in  compound,  to  the  sight 

Nor  wholly  green  appear,  nor  wholly  white. 

His  nostrils  oft  the  forceful  fume  resent, 

He  cursed  full  oft  his  dinner  for  its  scent ; 

Or  with  wry  faces,  wiping  as  he  spoke 

The  trickling  tears,  cried  "  Vengeance  on  the  smoke  I 

The  work  proceeds  :  not  roughly  turns  he  now 

The  pestle,  but  in  circles  smooth  and  slow  ; 

With  cautious  hand,  that  grudges  what  it  spills, 

Some  drops  of  olive  oil  he  next  instils. 

Then  vinegar  with  caution  scarcely  less, 

And  gathering  to  a  ball  the  medley  mess, 

Last,  with  two  fingers  frugally  applied, 

Sweeps  the  small  remnant  from  the  mortar's  side. 

And  thus  complete  in  figure  and  in  kind, 

Obtains  at  length  the  salad  he  designed. 

And  now  black  Cybale  before  him  stands, 
The  cake  drawn  newly  glowing  in  her  hands, 
He  glad  receives  it,  chasing  far  away 
All  fears  of  famine  for  the  passing  day  ; 
His  legs  enclosed  in  buskins,  and  his  head 
In  its  tough  casque  of  leather,  forth  he  led 
And  yoked  his  steers,  a  dull  obedient  pair, 
Then  drove  afield,  and  plunged  the  pointed  share. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  OVID. 

TRIST.  LIB.  V.  ELEG.  XII. 

Scribis,  ut  oblectem. 

You  bid  me  write  to  amuse  the  tedious  hours 

And  save  from  withering  my  poetic  powers  \ 

Hard  is  the  task,  my  friend,  for  verse  should 

From  the  free  mind,  not  fettered  down  by  woe  ; 

Restless  amidst  unceasing  tempests  tossed, 

Whoe'er  has  cause  for  sorrow,  I  have  most. 

Would  you  bid  Priam  laugh,  his  sons  all  slain, 

Or  childless  Niobe  from  tears  refrain, 

Join  the  gay  dance,  and  lead  the  festive  train  ? 

Does  grief  or  study  most  befit  the  mind 

To  this  remote,  this  barbarous  nook*  confined  ? 

•  Tomi  on  the  Euxine  Sea.  He  had  been  banished  thither,  it  is  believed,  by  Augustuf 
*or  hig  love  for  the  Emperor's  sister,  Julia. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  CLASSICS.  549 

^^^^  .  _  .  .  T-  --..._.—  .  -  -.n -------  -  ~"  J 

Could  you  impart  to  my  unshaken  breast 

The  fortitude  by  Socrates  possessed, 

Soon  would  it  sink  beneath  such  woes  as  mine, 

For  what  is  human  strength  to  wrath  divine  ? 

Wise  as  he  was,  and  heaven  pronounced  him  so, 

My  sufferings  would  have  laid  that  wisdom  low. 

Could  I  forget  my  country,  thee  and  all, 

And  even  the  offence  to  which  I  owe  my  fall, 

Yet  fear  alone  would  freeze  the  poet's  vein, 

While  hostile  troops  swarm  o'er  the  dreary  plain. 

Add  that  the  fatal  rust  of  long  disuse 

Unfits  me  for  the  service  of  the  Muse, 

Thistles  and  weeds  are  all  we  can  expect 

From  the  best  soil  impoverished  by  neglect  j 

Unexercised,  and  to  his  stall  confined, 

The  fleetest  racer  would  be  left  behind  ; 

The  best  built  bark  that  cleaves  the  watery  way, 

Laid  useless  by,  would  moulder  and  decay — 

No  hope  remains  that  time  shall  me  restore, 

Mean  as  I  was,  to  what  1  was  before. 

Think  how  a  series  of  desponding  cares 

Benumbs  the  genius,  and  its  force  impairs. 

How  oft,  as  now,  on  this  devoted  sheet, 

My  verse  constrained  to  move  with  measured  feet 

Reluctant  and  laborious  limps  along, 

And  proves  itself  a  wretched  exile's  song. 

What  is  it  tunes  the  most  melodious  lays  ? 

JTis  emulation  and  the  thirst  of  praise  ; 

A  noble  thirst,  and  not  unknown  to  me, 

While  smoothly  wafted  on  a  calmer  sea. 

No,  rather  let  the  world  forget  my  name. 

Is  it  because  the  world  approved  my  strain, 

You  prompt  me  to  the  same  pursuit  again  ? 

But  can  a  wretch  like  Ovid  pant  for  fame  ? 

No,  let  the  Nine  the  ungrateful  truth  excuse, 

I  charge  my  hopeless  ruin  on  the  Muse, 

And,  like  Perillus,*  meet  my  just  desert, 

The  victim  of  my  own  pernicious  art. 

Fool  that  I  was  to  be  so  warned  in  vain, 

And  shipwrecked  once  to  tempt  the  deep  again. 

Ill  fares  the  bard  in  this  unlettered  land, 

None  to  consult,  and  none  to  understand. 

The  purest  verse  has  no  admirers  here, 

Their  own  rude  language  only  suits  their  ear. 

•  The  inventor  of  the  Brazen  Bull,  in  which  Phalaris,  tyrant  of  Agrigentuin,  burnt 
his  victims  alive.    Perillus  was  burnt  in  it  the  first  himself. 


55°  TRANSLA  TIONS 


Rude  as  it  is,  at  length  familiar  grown, 

I  learn  it,  and  almost  unlearn  my  own. 

Yet  to  say  truth,  even  here  the  Muse  disdains 

Confinement  and  attempts  her  former  strains, 

But  finds  the  strong  desire  is  not  the  power, 

And  what  her  taste  condemns,  the  flames  devour 

A  part,  perhaps,  like  this,  escapes  the  doom, 

And  though  unworthy,  finds  a  friend  at  Rome ; 

But  oh  the  cruel  art,  that  could  undo 

Its  votary  thus  !  would  that  could  perish  too ! 


COMPLIMENTARY  PIECES   ADDRESSED   TO 

MILTON.     * 

TRANSLATED    FROM   THE   LATIN   AND   ITALIAN, 

[MILTON'S  PREFACE.] 


TRANSLATED. 


Well  as  the  author  knows  that  the  following  testimonies  are  not 
so  much  about  as  above  him,  and  that  men  of  great  ingenuity,  as 
well  as  our  friends,  are  apt,  through  abundant  zeal,  so  to  praise 
us  as  rather  to  draw  their  own  likeness  than  ours,  he  was  yet  un- 
willing that  the  world  should  remain  always  ignorant  of  composi- 
tions that  do  him  so  much  honor ;  and  especially  because  he  has 
other  friends,  who  have,  with  much  importunity,  solicited  their 
publication.  Aware  that  excessive  commendation  awakens  envy, 
he  would  with  both  hands  thrust  it  from  him,  preferring  just  so 
much  of  that  dangerous  tribute  as  may  of  right  belong  to  him  ; 
but  at  the  same  time  he  cannot  deny  that  he  sets  the  highest  value 
on  the  suffrages  of  judicious  and  distinguished  persons. 

THE  NEAPOLITAN,  JOHN  BAPTIST  MANSO, 

MARQUIS   OF  VILLA,    TO   THE   ENGLISHMAN, 
JOHN   MILTON. 

WHAT  features,  form,  mien,  manners,  with  a  niind 

Oh  how  intelligent,  and  how  refined ! 

Were  but  thy  piety  from  fault  as  free, 

Thou  wouldst  no  Angle*  but  an  Angel  be. 

*  The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  Angle  is  essential,  because  the  epigram  turns 
upon  it.    The  Angles  were  the  Anglo-Saxons'  own  ancestor!. 


FROM    THE   LATIN  AND  ITALIAN.  551 

AN    EPIGRAM    ADDRESSED    TO    THE    ENGLISHMAN, 

JOHN    MILTON, 

A     POET      WOKTHY      OF      THREE      LAURELS,      THE      GRECIAN,      LATIN, 

AND    ETRUSCAN. 

BY    JOHN    SALSILLO,    OF    ROME. 

MELES*  and  Minciof  both  your  urns  depress ! 
Sebetus,J  boast  henceforth  thy  Tasso  less! 
But  let  the  Thames  o'erpeer  all  floods,  since  he, 
For  Milton  famed,  shall,  single,  match  the  three. 

TO   JOHN   MILTON. 

BY    SELVAGGI. 

GREECE  sound  thy  Homer's,  Rome  thy  Virgil's  name, 
But  England's  Milton  equals  both  in  fame. 

AN   ODE 

ADDRESSED    TO    THE    ILLUSTRIOUS    ENGLISHMAN, 

MR.    JOHN    MILTON, 

BY    SIGNOR    ANTONIO    FRANCINI, 

GENTLEMAN,    OF    FLORENCE. 

EXALT  me,  Clio,  to  the  skies, 

That  1  may  form  a  starry  crown, 

Beyond  what  Helicon  supplies 

In  laureate  garlands  of  renown ; 
To  nobler  worth  be  brighter  glory  given, 
And  to  a  heavenly  mind  a  recompense  from  heaven. 

Time's  wasteful  hunger  cannot  prey 

On  everlasting  high  desert, 

Nor  can  Oblivion  steal  away 

Its  record  graven  on  the  heart; 
Lodge  but  an  arrow,  Virtue,  on  the  bow 
That  binds  my  lyre,  and  death  shall  be  a  vanquished  foe. 

*  Meles  is  a  river  of  Ionia,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Smyrna,  whence  Hotner  is  called 
Melesigenee   -  |C.j 

t  The  Miiicio  watered  the  city  of  Mantua,  famous  as  the  birth-place  of  Virgil.— [C.] 
i  debetus  is  uow  the  Fiume  delta  Maddelena  ;  it  runs  through  Naples  —  [C.] 


5  5  2  TRA  NSLA  TIONS 


In  Ocean's  blazing  flood  enshrined. 

Whose  vassal  tide  around  her  swells, 

Albion,  from  other  realms  disjoined, 

The  prowess  of  the  world  excels ; 
She  teems  with  heroes  that  to  glory  rise, 
With  more  than  human  force  in  our  astonished  eyes. 

To  Virtue,  driven  from  other  lands, 
Their  bosoms  yield  a  safe  retreat ; 
Her  law  alone  their  deed  commands, 
Her  smiles  they  feel  divinely  sweet ; 
Confirm  my  record,  Milton,  generous  youth  ! 
And  by  true  virtue  prove  thy  virtue's  praise  a  truth. 

Zeuxis,  all  energy  and  flame, 

Set  ardent  forth  in  his  career, 

Urged  to  his  task  by  Helen's  fame, 

Resounding  ever  in  his  ear  ; 
To  make  his  image  to  her  beauty  true, 
From  the  collected  fair  each  sovereign  charm  he  drew.* 

The  bee,  with  subtlest  skill  endued, 
Thus  toils  to  earn  her  precious  juice, 
From  all  the  flowery  myriads  strewed 
O'er  meadow  and  parterre  profuse  ; 
Confederate  voices  one  sweet  air  compound, 
And  various  chords  consent  in  one  harmonious  sound. 

An  artist  of  celestial  aim, 
Thy  genius,  caught  by  moral  grace, 
With  ardent  emulation's  flame 
The  steps  of  Virtue  toiled  to  trace, 
Observed  in  every  land  who  brightest  shone, 
And  blending  all  their  best,  make  perfect  good  thy  own. 

From  all  in  Florence  born,  or  taught 
Our  country's  sweetest  accent  there, 
Whose  works,  with  learned  labor  wrought, 
Immortal  honors  justly  share, 
Thou  hast  such  treasure  drawn  of  purest  ore, 
That  not  even  Tuscan  bards  can  boast  a  richer  store. 

Babel,  confused,  and  with  her  towers 
Unfinished  spreading  wide  and  plain, 

*  The  portrait  of  Helen  was  painted  at  the  request  of  the  people  of  Crotona,  who 
Bent  to  the  artist  all  their  loveliest  girls  for  models.  Zeuxis  selected  five,  and  united 
their  separate  beauties  in  his  picture. 


FROM  THE  LA  TIN  AND  ITALIAN.  553 

Has  served  but  to  evince  thy  powers, 
With  all  her  tongues  confused  in  vain, 
Since  not  alone  thy  England's  purest  phrase, 
But  every  polished  realm  thy  various  speech  displays. 

The  secret  things  of  heaven  and  earth, 

By  nature,  too  reserved,  concealed 

From  other  minds  of  highest  worth, 

To  thee  are  copiously  revealed  ; 
Thou  knowest  them  clearly,  and  thy  views  attain 
The  utmost  bounds  prescribed  to  moral  truth's  domain. 

Let  Time  no  more  his  wing  display, 

And  boast  his  ruinous  career, 

For  Virtue,  rescued  from  his  sway, 

His  injuries  may  cease  to  fear  ; 
Since  all  events  that  claim  remembrance  find 
A  chronicle  exact  in  thy  capacious  mind. 

Give  me,  that  I  ma/  praise  thy  song, 
Thy  lyre,  by  which  alone  I  can, 
Which,  placing  thee  the  stars  among, 
Already  proves  thee  more  than  man  ; 
And  Thames  shall  seem  Permessus,*  while  his  stream 
Graced  with  a  swan  like  thee,  shall  be  my  favorite  theme. 

I  who  beside  the  Arno,  strain 

To  match  thy  merit  with  my  lays, 

Learn,  after  many  an  effort  vain, 

To  admire  thee  rather  than  to  praise ; 
And  that  by  mute  astonishment  alone, 
Not  by  the  faltering  tongue,  thy  worth  may  best  be  shown. 

TO  MR.  JOHN  MILTON  OF  LONDON. 

A  YOUTH  eminent  from  his  country  and  his  virtues,  who  in  his 
travels  has  made  himself  acquainted  with  many  nations,  and  in 
his  studies,  with  all,  that,  like  another  Ulysses,  he  might  learn 
all  that  all  could  teach  him  ; 

Skilful  in  many  tongues,  on  whose  lips  languages  now  mute  so 
live  again,  that  the  idioms  of  all  are  insufficient  to  his  praise ; 
happy  acquisition  by  which  he  understands  the  universal  admira- 
tion and  applause  his  talents  have  excited  ; 

Whose  endowments  of  mind  and  person  move  us  to  wonder, 
but  at  the  same  time  fix  us  immovable  ;  whoso  works  prompt  ua 
to  extol  him,  but  by  their  beauty  strike  us  mute  ; 

*  A  river  in  Boeotia  which  took  its  rise  in  Helicon.    (Virg.  Eel.  yi.  64.) 


• 


554  TRAN  SLA  TIONS 


In  whose  memory  the  whole  world  is  treasured  ;  in  whose  intel- 
lect, wisdom  ;  in  whose  heart,  the  ardent  desire  of  glory  ,  and  in 
whose  mouth,  eloquence.  Who  with  Astronomy  for  his  conduc- 
tor, hears  the  music  of  the  spheres ;  with  Philosophy  for  the 
teacher,  deciphers  the  handwriting  of  God,  in  those  wonders  of 
creation  which  proclaim  His  greatness ;  arid  with  the  most  un- 
wearied literary  industry  for  his  associate, 

Examines,  restores,  penetrates  with  ease  the  obscurities  of  anti- 
quity, the  desolations  of  ages,  and  the  labyrinths  of  learning  ; 

"  But  wherefore  toil  to  reach  these  arduous  heights  ?  " 

To  him  in  short  whose  virtues  the  mouths  of  Fame  are  too  few 
to  celebrate,  and  whom  astonishment  forbids  us  to  praise  as  he 
deserves,  this  tribute  due  to  his  merits,  and  the  offering  of  rever- 
ence and  affection,  is  paid  by 

CARLO  DATI, 

A  patrician  Florentine. 

This  great  man's  servant,  and  this  good  man's  friend. 


TRANSLATIONS  OF  THE  LATIN  AND  ITALIAN 

POEMS  OF  MILTON. 

ELEGY  I. 

TO  CHARLES  DIODATL* 

AT  length,  my  friend,  the  far  sent  letters  come, 
Charged  with  thy  kindness,  to  their  destined  home  ; 
They  come,  at  length,  from  Dava's  f  western  side, 
Where  prone  she  seeks  the  salt  Vergivian  t  tide. 
Though  born  of  foreign  race,  yet  born  for  me, 
And  that  my  sprightly  friend,  now  free  to  roam, 
Must  seek  again  so  soon  his  wonted  home. 
I  well  content,  where  Thames  with  influent  tide 
My  native  city  laves,  meantime  reside, 
Nor  zeal  nor  duty  now  my  steps  impel 
To  reedy  Cam,  and  my  forbidden  cell.g 

*  Diodati  was  a  schoolfellow  of  Milton  at  St.  Paul's,  of  Italian  extraction,  nephew 
of  Giovanni  Diodati,  the  translator  of  the  Bible  into  Italian,  and  son  of  Theodore 
Diodati,  a  physician  of  eminence,  who  married  and  settled  in  England.  Charles  Dio- 
dati's  early  death  formed  the  subject  of  the  Epitaphium  Damonis. 

t  The  Dee  of  Cher:**r. 

t  The  Vergivian  Sea,  so  called  by  Ptolemy,  was  the  Irish  Sea  between  England  and 
Ireland. 

§  Milton  had  beer*  msticated  on  account  of  a  quarrel  with  his  tutor. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  AND  ITALIAN  555 

Nor  aught  of  pleasure  in  those  fields  have  I, 

That  to  the  musing  bard  all  shade  deny. 

'Tis  time  that  I  a  pedant's  threats  *  disdain, 

And  fly  from  wrongs  my  soul  will  ne'er  sustain. 

If  peaceful  days,  in  lettered  leisure  spent 

Beneath  my  father's  roof,  be  banishment, 

Then  call  me  banished,  I  will  ne'er  refuse 

A  name  expressive  of  the  lot  I  choose. 

I  would  that,  exiled  to  the  Pontic  shore, 

Rome's  hapless  bard  f  had  suffered  nothing  more ; 

He  then  had  equalled  even  Homer's  lays, 

And  Virgil  1  thou  hadst  won  but  second  praise: 

For  here  I  woo  the  Muse  with  no  control, 

And  here  my  books — my  life — absorb  me  whole, 

Here  too  I  visit,  or  to  smile  or  weep, 

The  winding  theatre's  majestic  sweep  ; 

The  grave  or  gay  colloquial  scene  recruits 

My  spirits,  spent  in  learning's  long  pursuits  ; 

Whether  some  senior  shrewd,  or  spendthrift  heir, 

Suitor,  or  soldier,  now  unarmed,  be  there, 

Or  some  coifed  brooder  o'er  a  ten  years'  cause, 

Thunder  the  Norman  gibberish  of  the  laws. 

The  lackey,  there,  oft  dupes  the  wary  sire, 

And,  artful,  speeds  the  enamored  son's  desire 

There,  virgins  oft,  unconscious  what  they  prove, 

What  love  is  know  not,  yet,  unknowing  love. 

Or,  if  impassioned  tragedy  wield  high 

The  bloody  sceptre,  ^ive  her  locks  to  fly, 

Wild  as  the  winds,  and  roll  her  haggard  eye. 

I  gaze  and  grieve,  still  cherishing  my  grief  ; 

At  times  e'en  bitter  tears  yield  sweet  relief, 

As,  when  from  bliss  untasted  torn  away, 

Some  youth  dies,  hapless,  on  his  bridal  day  ; 

Or  when  the  ghost,  sent  back  from  shades  below, 

Fills  the  assassin's  heart  with  vengeful  woe  ; 

When  Troy,  or  Argos,  the  dire  scene  affords, 

Or  Creon's  hall  \  laments  its  guilty  lords. 

Nor  always  city-pent,  or  pent  at  home, 

I  dwell  ;  but,  when  spring  calls  me  forth  to  roam, 

Expatiate  in  our  proud  suburban  shades 

Of  branching  elm  that  never  sun  pervades, 

Here  many  a  virgin  troop  I  may  descry, 

Like  stars  of  mildest  influence,  gliding  by. 

*  His  Tutor,  Chappell.  t  Ovid. 

J  lu  Thebes — the  guilty  lords  are  Eteocles  and  Polyuices  the  brothers-  -sons  of 
CEdipus  and  Jocasta,  who  fell  in  their  unnatural  strife. 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


O  forms  divine !     O  looks  that  might  inspire 

Even  Jove  himself,  grown  old,  with  young  desire  I 

Oft  have  I  gazed  on  gem-surpassing  eyes, 

Out-sparkling  every  star  that  gilds  the  skies, 

Necks  whiter  than  the  ivory  arm  bestowed 

By  Jove  on  Pelops,  or  the  milky  road  ! 

Bright  locks,  Love's  golden  snare  !  these  falling  low, 

Those  playing  wanton  o'er  the  graceful  brow  ! 

Cheeks,  too,  more  winning  sweet  than  after  shower 

Adonis  turned  to  Flora's  favorite  flower ! 

Yield,  heroines,  yield,  and  ye  who  shared  the  embrace 

Of  Jupiter  in  ancient  times,  give  place  ! 

Give  place,  ye  turbaned  fair  of  Persia's  coast ! 

And  ye  not  less  renowned,  Assyria's  boast ! 

Submit,  ye  nymphs  of  Greece  !  ye,  once  the  bloom 

Of  Ilion  !  and  all  ye  of  haughty  Rome, 

Who  swept,  of  old,  her  theatres  with  trains 

Redundant,  and  still  live  in  classic  strains ! 

To  British  damsels  beauty's  palm  is  due  \ 

Aliens  !  to  follow  them  is  fame  for  you. 

0  city  founded  by  Dardanian  hands, 

Whose  towering  front  the  circling  realm  commands, 

Too  blest  abode  !  no  loveliness  we  see 

In  all  the  earth,  but  it  abounds  in  thee. 

The  virgin  multitude  that  daily  meets, 

Radiant  with  gold  and  beauty,  in  thy  streets, 

Outnumbers  all  her  train  of  starry  fires 

With  which  Diana  gilds  thy  lofty  spires. 

Fame  says  that,  wafted  hither  by  her  doves, 

With  all  her  host  of  quiver-bearing  loves, 

Venus,  preferring  Paphian  scenes  no  more, 

Has  fixed  her  empire  on  thy  nobler  shore. 

But,  lest  the  sightless  boy  enforce  my  stay, 

1  leave  these  happy  walls  while  yet  I  may. 
Immortal  moly  *  shall  secure  my  heart 
From  all  the  sorcery  of  Circaean  art, 
And  I  will  e'en  repass  Cam's  reedy  pools 

To  face  once  more  the  warfare  of  the  schools, 
Meantime  accept  this  trifle  !  rhymes  though  few, 
Yet  such  as  prove  thy  friend's  remembrance  true ! 

*  Cowper  thus  translates  the  account  given  in  the  Odyssey  of  Moly,  by  the  magical 
wer  by  which  Ulysses  was  enabled  to  escape  from  Circe  : — 

"  So  spake  the  Argicide,  and  from  the  earth 
That  plant  extracting,  placed  it  in  my  hand, 
Then  taught  me  all  its  powers.    Black  was  the  root, 
Milk-white  the  blossom  ;  moly  is  its  name 
In  heaven  ;  not  easily  by  mortal  man 
Dug  forth,  but  all  is  easy  to  the  gods." 

Odyssey,  x.  370-375. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  AND  ITALIAN.  557 


ELEGY   II. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  BEDEL 

AT  CAMBRIDGE.* 

THEE,  whose  refulgent  staff  and  summons  clear, 
Minerva's  flock  long  time  was  wont  to  obey, 

Although  thyself  a  herald,  famous  here, 
The  last  of  heralds,  Death,  has  snatched  away. 

He  calls  on  all  alike,  nor  even  deigns 

To  spare  the  office  that  himself  sustains. 

Thy  locks  were  whiter  than  the  plumes  displayed 
By  Leda's  paramour  f  in  ancient  time  ; 

But  thou  wast  worthy  ne'er  to  have  decayed, 
Or,  JEson-like,|  t<    know  a  second  prime. 

Worthy,  for  whom  some  goddess  should  have  won 

New  life,  oft  kneeling  to  Apollo's  son.  § 

Commissioned  to  convene  with  hasty  call 
The  gowned  tribes,  how  graceful  wouldst  thou  stand  1 

So  stood  Cyllenius  ||  erst  in  Priam's  hall, 
Wing-footed  messenger  of  Jove's  command  1 

And  so  Eurybates,1[  when  he  addressed 

To  Peleus'  son,  Atrides'  proud  behest. 

Dread  queen  of  sepulchres !  whose  rigorous  laws 
And  watchful  eyes  run  through  the  realms  below, 

Oh,  oft  too  adverse  to  Minerva's  cause  1 
Too  often  to  the  muse  not  less  a  foe  I 

Choose  meaner  marks,  and  with  more  equal  aim 

Pierce  useless  drones,  earth's  burthen  and  its  shame ! 

• 

Flow,  therefore,  tears  for  him  from  every  eye, 

All  ye  disciples  of  the  muses,  weep  1 
Assembling  all  in  robes  of  sable  dye, 

Around  his  bier  lament  his  endless  sleep  i 
And  let  complaining  Elegy  rehearse 
In  every  school  her  sweetest,  saddest  verse. 

*  Richard  Redding,  of  St.  John's  College,  M.A.    He  died  in  October,  1620. 

t  The  Swan— Jupiter  had  turned  himself  into  that  bird. 

i  J*Eson  was  restored  to  youth  by  his  daughter  Medea. 

§>  Esculapius,  the  god  of  medicine  ||  Mercury. 

If  One  of  the  heralds  sent  to  Achilles  by  Agamemnon. 


5  5$  TRA  NSLA  TIONS 


ELEGY   III. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BISHOP  OF  WINCHESTER.* 

(Sept,  21,1626.) 

SILENT  I  sat,  dejected  and  alone, 

Making  in  thought  the  public  woes  my  own, 

When  first  arose  the  image  in  my  breast 

Of  England's  suffering  by  that  scourge  the  pest  I  f 

How  Death,  his  funeral  torch  and  scythe  in  hand, 

Entering  the  lordliest  mansions  of  the  land, 

Has  laid  the  gem-illuming  palace  low, 

And  levelled  tribes  of  nobles  at  a  blow. 

I  next  deplored  the  famed  fraternal  %  pair, 

Too  soon  to  ashes  turned  and  empty  air  1 

The  heroes  next,  whom  snatched  into  the  skies 

All  Belgia  saw,  and  followed  with  her  sighs ; 

But  thee  far  most  I  mourned,  regretted  most, 

Winton's  chief  shepherd,  and  her  worthiest  boast ! 

Poured  out  in  tears  I  thus  complaining  said  :- 

"  Death,  next  in  power  to  him  who  rules  the  dead  1 

It's  not  enough  that  all  the  woodlands  yield 

To  thy  fell  force,  and  every  verdant  field ; 

That  lilies,  at  one  noisome  blast  of  thine, 

And  e'en  the  Cyprian  queen's  own  roses  pine ; 

That  oaks  themselves,  although  the  running  rill 

Suckle  their  roots,  must  wither  at  thy  will ; 

That  all  the  winged  nations,  even  those 

Whose  heaven-directed  flight  the  future  shows, 

And  all  the  beasts  that  in  dark  forests  stray, 

And  all  the  herds  of  Proteus  §  are  thy  prey. 

Ah  envious  !  armed  with  powers  so  unconfi ned ! 

Why  stain  thy  hands  with  blood  of  human  kind  ? 

Why  take  delight,  with  darts  that  never  roam, 

To  chase  a  heaven-born  spirit  from  her  home?  " 

While  thus  I  mourned,  the  star  of  evening  stood, 
Now  newly  risen  above  the  western  flood, 
And  Phoebus  from  his  morning  goal  again 
Had  reached  the  gulfs  of  the  Iberian  main. 
I  wished  repose,  and,  on  my  couch  reclined, 
Took  early  rest,  to  night  and  sleep  resigned  : 

*  Lancelot  Andrewes,  Fuller's  "  peerless  prelate." 
t  The  plague  which  ravaged  England  in  1626. 

j  Prince  Christian  of  Brunswick,  and  Count  Mansfelt.    They  were  brothers  in  armfl 
and  the  Protestant  champions.    They  both  died  in  1626. 

f  Marine  creatures.    Proteus  was  the  shepherd  of  the  sea.    See  Georg.  ir. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  AND  ITALIAN.  559 


When — Oh  for  words  to  paint  what  I  beheld  ! 

I  seemed  to  wander  in  a  spacious  field, 

Where  all  the  champaign  glowed  with  purple  light, 

Like  that  of  sunrise  on  the  mountain  height ; 

Flowers  over  all  the  field,  of  every  hue 

That  ever  Iris  wore,  luxuriant  grew. 

Nor  Chloris,*  with  whom  amorous  zephyrs  play, 

E'er  dressed  Alcinous'  garden  half  so  gay.f 

A  silent  current,  like  the  Tagus,  rolled 

O'er  golden  sands,  but  sands  of  purer  gold  ; 

With  dewy  airs  Favonius  fanned  the  flowers 

With  dewy  airs  awakened  under  rosy  bowers, 

Such,  poets  feign,  irradiate  all  o'er 

The  sun's  abode  on  India's  utmost  shore. 

While  I  that  splendor,  and  the  mingled  shade 
Of  fruitful  vinos,  with  wonder  fixed,  surveyed, 
At  once,  with  looks  that  beamed  celestial  grace, 
The  seer  of  Wintoii  stood  before  mv  face. 

•j 

His  snowy  vesture's  hem,  descending  low, 

His  golden  sandals  swept,  and  pure  as  snow 

New  fallen,  shone  the  miir«'  <-u  his  brow. 

Where'er  he  trod,  a  tremnl«u>  >weet  sound 

Of  gladness  shook  the  Howry  scenes  around: 

Attendant  angels  clap  their  starry  wings, 

The  trumpet  shakes  the  sky,  all  ether  rings; 

Each  chants  his  welcome,  folds  him  to  his  breast, 

And  thus  a  sweeter  v<>jY«>  than  all  the  rest: 

*' Ascend,  my  son  !  thy  Father's  kingdom  share! 

My  son  !  henceforth  be  freed  from  every  care  1 ' 

So  spake  the  voice,  and  at  its  tender  close 
With  psaltery's  sound  the  angelic  band  arose  ; 
Then  night  retired,  and,  chased  by  dawning  day, 
The  visionary  bliss  passed  all  away. 
I  mourned  my  banished  sleep  with  fond  concern ; 
Frequent  to  me  may  dreams  like  this  return ! 


ELEGY   IV. 

TO  HIS  TUTOR,  THOMAS  YOUNG.* 

CHAPLAIN  TO   THE   ENGLISH    FACTORY    AT    HAMBYRGH, 

HENCE  my  epistle — skim  the  deep — fly  o'er 
Yon  smooth  expanse  to  the  Teutonic  shore  ! 

*  Flora.  t  See  the  account  of  his  gardens  in  the  Odyssey, 

t  Young  was  private  tutor  to  Milton  before  he  went  to  St.  Paul's. 


5 6o  TRANSLATIONS 

Haste — lest  a  friend  should  grieve  for  thy  delay — 

And  the  gods  grant  that  nothing  thwart  thy  way  I 

I  will  myself  invoke  the  king*  who  binds 

In  his  Sicanian  echoing  vault  the  winds, 

With  Dorisf  and  her  nymphs,  and  all  the  throng 

Of  azure  gods,  to  speed  thee  safe  along. 

But  rather,  to  ensure  thy  happier  haste, 

Ascend  Medea's  chariot, %  if  thou  niayst ; 

Or  that  whence  young  Triptolemus  §  of  yore 

Descended,  welcome  on  the  Scythian  shore. 

The  sands  that  line  the  German  coast  descried 

To  opulent  Hamburga  turn  aside, 

So  called,  if  legendary  fame  be  true, 

From  Kama, ||  whom  a  club-arm'd  Cimbrian  slew' 

There  lives,  deep  learned  and  primitively  just, 

A  faithful  steward  of  his  Christian  trust, 

My  friend,  and  favorite  inmate  of  my  heart, 

That  now  is  forced  to  want  its  better  part ! 

What  mountains  now,  and  seas,  alas,  how  wide 

From  me  this  other,  dearer  self  divide, 

Dear  as  the  sage  renowned  for  moral  truth  H" 

To  the  prime  spirit  of  the  Attic  youth  ! 

Dear  as  the  Stagyrite***  to  Ammon's  son,ft 

His  pupil,  who  disdained  the  world  he  won  ! 

Nor  so  did  Chiron,  or  so  Phoenix  shineJt 

In  young  Achilles'  eyes,  as  he  in  mine. 

First  led  by  him  through  sweet  Aoniari  §§  shade, 

Each  sacred  haunt  of  Pindus  I  surveyed  ; 

And  favored  by  the  Muse,  whom  I  implored, 

Thrice  on  my  lip  the  hallowed  stream  I  poured. 

But  thrice  the  sun's  resplendent  chariot  rolled 

To  Aries,  has  new  tinged  his  fleece  with  gold, 

And  Chloris  twice  has  dressed  the  meadows  gay, 

And  twice  has  summer  parched  their  bloom  away. 

Since  last  delighted  on  his  looks  I  hung, 

Or  my  ear  drank  the  music  of  his  tongue 

Fly,  therefore,  and  surpass  the  tempest's  speed ; 

Aware  thyself  that  there  is  urgent  need ! 

Him,  entering,  thou  shalt  haply  seated  see 

Besides  his  spouse,  his  infants  on  his  knee  ; 

Or  turning,  page  by  page,  with  studious  look, 

Some  bulky  father,  or  God's  Holy  Book  ; 


*  Eolus,  god  of  the  east  wind.    Sicama  was  a  name  for  Sicily. 

s  Mother  of  the  Nereids,  or  sea-nymphs.  J  Drawn  by  winged  dragons 

§  Triptolemus  was  presented  by  Ceres  with  a  winged  chariot. 

||  A  Saxon  warrior  slain  by  a  giant.        If  Socrates.         **  Aristotle.         tt 

£$  Chiron  and  Phoenix  were  the  tutors  of  Achilles.  §§  Helicon 


FROM  THE  LATIN  AND  ITALIAN.  561 

—   .-  -.  f 

Or  ministering  (which  is  his  "weightiest  care) 
To  Christ's  assembled  flock  their  heavenly  fare. 
Give  him,  whatever  his  employment  be, 
Such  gratulatiori  as  he  claims  from  me  I 
And  with  a  downcast  eye,  and  carriage  meek, 
Addressing  him,  forgot  not  thus  to  speak: 

"  If  compassed  round  with  arms  thou  canst  attend 
To  verse,  verse  greets  thee  from  a  distant  friend. 
Long  due,  and  late,  I  left  the  English  shore ; 
But  make  me  welcome  for  that  cause  the  more  ! 
Such  from  Ulysse  ,  his  chaste  wife  to  cheer, 
The  slow  episile  came,  though  late,  sincere. 
But  wherefore  this  ?  why  palliate  I  the  deed 
For  which  the  culprit's  self  could  hardly  plead  ? 
Self-charged,  and  self-condemned,  his  proper  part 
He  feels  neglected,  with  an  aching  heart ; 
But  thou  forgive — delinquents  who  confess, 
And  pray  forgiveness,  merit  anger  lean ; 
From  timid  foes  the  lion  turns  away, 
Nor  yawns  upon  or  rends  a  crouching  prey , 
Even  pike- wielding  Thracians  learn  to  spare, 
Won  by  soft  influence  of  a  suppliant  prayer  ; 
And  Heaven's  dread  thunderbolt  arrested  stands 
By  a  cheap  victim  and  uplifted  hands. 
Long  had  he  wished  to  write,  but  was  withheld 
And  writes  at  last,  by  Love  alone  compelled, 
For  Fame,  too  often  true  when  she  alarms, 
Reports  thy  neighboring  fields  a  scene  of  arms  \* 
Thy  city  against  fierce  befitegen  l>arred, 
And  all  the  Saxon  chiefs  for  light  prepared. 
Enyof  wastes  thy  country  wide  around, 
And  saturates  with  blood  the  tainted  ground  ; 
Mars  rests  contented  in  his  Thrace  no  more. 
But  goads  his  steeds  to  fields  of  trerman  gore, 
The  ever  verdant  olive  fades  arid  dies, 
And  Peace,  the  trumpet-hating  goddess,  flies, 
Flies  from  that  earth  which  Justice  long  had  left, 
And  leaves  the  world  of  its  last  guard  bereft. 

Thus  Horror  girds  thee  round.     Meantime  alone 
Thou  dwellest,  and  helpless,  in  a  soil  unknown  ; 
Poor,  and  receiving  from  a  foreign  hand 
The  aid  denied  thee  in  thy  native  land. 
O  ruthless  country,  and  unfeeling  more 
Than  thy  own  billow-beaten  chalky  shore ! 

*  Alluding  to  the  war  between  the  Protestant  League  and  the  Imperialist*, 
t  The  goddess  of  war. 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


Leavest  thou  to  foreign  care  the  worthies  given 
By  providence  to  guide  thy  steps  to  heaven  ? 
His  ministers,  commissioned  to  proclaim 
Eternal  blessings  in  a  Saviour's  name  I 
Ah  then  most  worthy,  with  a  soul  unfed, 
In  Stygian  night  to  lie  forever  dead  ! 
So  once  the  venerable  Tishbite  strayed 
An  exiled  fugitive  from  shade  to  shade, 
When,  flying  Ahab  and  his  fury  wife, 
In  lone  Arabian  wilds  he  sheltered  life  ; 
So  from  Philippi  wandered  forth  forlorn 
Cilician  Paul,  with  sounding  scourges  torn  ; 
And  Christ  himself  so  left,  and  trod  no  more 
The  thankless  Grergesene's  forbidden  shore. 

But  thou  take  courage  !  strive  against  despair  ! 
Quake  not  with  dread,  nor  nourish  anxious  care  ! 
Grim  war  indeed  on  every  side  appears  ; 
And  thou  art  menaced  by  a  thousand  spears  ; 
Yet  none  shall  drink  thy  blood,  or  shall  offend 
Even  the  defenceless  bosom  of  my  friend. 
For  thee  the  ^gis  of  thy  good  shall  hide, 
Jehovah's  self  shall  combat  on  thy  side, 
The  same  who  vanquished  under  Sion's  towers 
At  silent  midnight  all  Assyria's  powers, 
The  same  who  overthrew  in  ages  past 
Damascus5  sons  that  laid  Samaria  waste  ! 
Their  king  he  filled  and  them  with  fatal  fears 
By  mimic  sounds  of  clarions  in  their  ears, 
Of  hoofs,  and  wheels,  and  rieighings  from  afar, 
Of  clashing  armor,  and  the  din  of  war. 

Thou,  therefore  (as  the  most  afflicted  may)  , 
Still  hope,  and  triumph  o'er  thy  evil  day  ! 
Look  forth,  expecting  happier  times  to  come, 
And  to  enjoy,  once  more,  thy  native  home  I 


ELEGY  V. 

ON  THE  APPROACH  OF  SPRING, 

TIME,  never  wandering  from  his  annual  round, 
Bids  Zephyr  breathe  the  spring,  and  thaw  the  ground 
Bleak  Winter  flies,  new  verdure  clothes  the  plain, 
And  Earth  assumes  her  transient  youth  again. 
Dream  I,  or  also  to  the  spring  belong 
Increase  of  genius,  and  new  powers  of  song  ? 


FROM  THE  LATIN  AND  ITALIAN.  $03 

Spring  gives  them,  and,  how  strange  soe'er  it  seems, 

Impels  me  now  to  some  harmonious  themes. 

Castalia's  fountain,  and  the  forked  hill  * 

By  day,  by  night,  niy  raptured  fancy  fill ; 

My  bosom  burns  and  heaves,  I  hear  within 

A  sacred  sound  that  prompts  me  to  begin. 

Lo  !  Phoebus  comes  !  with  his  bright  hair  he  blends 

The  radiant  laurel  wreath  ;  Phoebus  descends  I 

I  mount,  and  undepressed  by  cumbrous  clay, 

Through  cloudy  regions  win  niy  easy  way  ; 

Rapt  through  poetic  shadowy  haunts  I  fly, 

The  shrines  all  open  to  my  dauntless  eye, 

My  spirit  searches  all  the  realms  of  light, 

And  no  Tartarian  gulfs  elude  my  sight. 

But  this  ecstatic  trance — this  glorious  storm 

Of  inspiration — what  will  it  perform  ? 

Spring  claims  the  verse  that  with  his  influence  glows, 

And  shall  be  paid  with  what  himself  bestows. 

Thou,  veiled  with  opening  foliage,  lead'stthe  throng 
Of  feathered  ministrels,  Philomel !  in  song  ; 
Let  us,  in  concert,  to  the  season  sing, 
Civil  arid  sylvan  heralds  of  the  spring. 

With  notes  triumphant  Spring's  approach  declare  ! 
To  Spring,  ye  muses,  annual  tribute  bear  ! 
The  Orient  left,  and  Ethiopia's  plains, 
The  Sun  now  northward  turns  his  golden  reins ; 
Night  creeps  not  now,  yet  rules  with  gentle  sway. 
And  drives  her  dusky  horrors  swift  away ; 
Now  less  fatigued,  on  this  ethereal  plain 
Booto  fallows  his  celestial  wain  ;  f 
And  now  the  radiant  sentinels  above, 
Less  numerous,  watch  around  the  courts  of  Jove, 
For,  with  the  night,  Force,  Ambush,  Slaughter  fly, 
And  no  gigantic  guilt  alarms  the  sky. 
Now,  haply  says  some  shepherd,  while  he  views 
Recumbent  on  a  rock,  the  reddening  dews, 
This  night,  this,  surely,  Phoebus  missed  the  fair, 
Who  stops  his  chariot  by  her  amorous  care. 
Cyiithia,J  delighted  by  the  morning's  glow, 
Speeds  to  the  woodland,  and  resumes  her  bow  ; 
Resigns  her  beams,  and,  glad  to  disappear, 
Blesses  his  aid,  who  shortens  her  career. 

*  Helicon. 

t  The  Great  Bear,  called  also  Charles's  Wain,  or  wagon.  "  Bob'tes"  is  tli«  con- 
stellation called  the  Wagoner,  who  is  said  to  be  "  let-s  fatigued  "  because  he  drives  the 
wain  higher  in  the  sky.  J  Diana,  or  the  uioou. 


$64  TRANSLA  TIONS 

<^..  .....  .-in         i        •,.„ — ••^^•^  •     i  i    — .   i     .    . ,.     ..,  —..in  ....         .-—        —  -  i  i  , __   _-.™™^^> 

"  Come,"  Phoebus  cries,  "Aurora,  come — too  late 

Thou  lingerest,  slumbering,  with  thy  withered  mate  ;* 

Leave  him,  and  to  Hymettus'  top  repair  ! 

Thy  darling  Cephalus  expects  thee  there." 

The  goddess  with  a  blush  her  love  .betrays, 

But  mounts,  and,  driving  rapidly,  obeys. 

Earth  now  desires  thee,  Phoebus  1  and,  to  engage 

Thy  warm  embrace,  casts  off  the  guise  of  age ; 

Desires  thee,  and  deserves  ;  for  who  so  sweet 

When  her  rich  bosom  courts  thy  genial  heat  ? 

Her  breath  imparts  to  every  breeze  that  blows 

Arabia's  harvest  and  the  Paphian  rose. 

Her  lofty  front  she  diadems  around 

With  sacred  pines,  like  Ops  on  Ida  crowned ; 

Her  dewy  locks,  with  various  flowers  new  blown, 

She  interweaves,  various,  and  all  her  own ; 

For  Proserpine,  in  such  a  wreath  attired, 

Taenarian  Dis  f  himself  with  love  inspired. 

Fear  not,  lest,  cold  and  coy,  the  nymph  refuse  ! 

Herself,  with  all  her  sighing  zephyrs,  sues ; 

Each  courts  thee,  fanning  soft  his  scented  wing, 

And  all  her  groves  with  warbled  wishes  ring. 

Nor,  unendowed  and  indigent,  aspires 

The  amorous  earth  to  engage  thy  warm  desires. 

But,  rich  in  balmy  drugs,  assists  thy  claim, 

Divine  physician  !  to  that  glorious  name. 

If  splendid  recompense,  if  gifts  can  move 

Desire  in  thee  (gifts  often  purchase  love), 

She  offers  all  the  wealth  her  mountains  hide, 

Arid  all  that  rests  beneath  the  boundless  tide. 

How  oft,  when  headlong  from  the  heavenly  steep 

She  sees  thee  playing  in  the  western  deep, 

How  oft  she  cries — "  Ah  Phoebus,  why  repair 

Thy  wasted  force,  why  seek  refreshment  there  ? 

Can  TethysJ  win  thee?  wherefore  shouldst  thou  lave 

A  face  so  fair  in  her  unpleasant  wave  ? 

Come  seek  my  green  retreats,  and  rather  choose 

To  cool  thy  tresses  in  my  crystal  dews. 

The  grassy  turf  shall  yield  thee  sweeter  rest ; 

Come,  lay  thy  evening  glories  on  my  breast, 

And  breathing  fresh  through  many  a  humid  rose. 

Soft  whispering  airs  shall  lull  thee  to  repose  1 

No  fears  I  feel  like  Semele  §  to  die, 

*  Tithonus.  t  Pluto- 

t  A  wa.ter  goddess — mother  of  the  river  gods  and  wife  of  Ocean  us. 

§  Semele  was  consumed  by  Jupiter's  lightnings. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  565 

Nor  lest  thy  burning  wheels  approach  too  nigh, 
For  thou  canst  govern  them,  here  therefore  rest, 
And  lay  thy  evening  glories  on  my  breast !  • 

Thus  breathes  the  wanton  Earth  her  amorous  flame, 
And  all  her  countless  offspring  feel  the  same ; 
For  Cupid  now  through  every  region  strays, 
Brightening  his  faded  fires  with  solar  rays  ; 
His  new-strung  bow  sends  forth  a  deadlier  sound, 
And  his  new-pointed  shafts  more  deeply  wound ; 
Nor  Dian's  self  escapes  him  now  unti  ied, 
Nor  even  Vesta  at  her  altar  side  ; 
1 1  is  mother  too  repairs  her  beauty's  wane, 
And  seems  sprung  newly  from  the  deep  again. 
Exulting  youths  the  hymeneal  sing. 
With  Hymen's  name,  roofs,  rocks,  and  valleys  ring  ; 
He,  new  attired,  and  by  the  season  divst, 
Proceeds,  all  fragrant,  in  his  saffron  vest. 
Now  many  a  golden-cinctured  virgin  roves 
To  taste  the  pleasures  of  the  fields  and  groves, 
All  wish,  and  each  alike,  SOUK-  favorite  youth 
Hers,  in  the  bond  of  hymeneal  Truth. 
Now  pipes  the  shepherd  through  his  reeds  again, 
Nor  Phillis  wants  a  song  that  suits  the  strain  ; 
With  songs  the  seaman  hails  the  starry  sphere, 
And  dolphins  rise  from  the  abyss  to  hear: 
Jove  feels  himself  the  season,  sports  again 
With  his  fair  spouse,  and  1  .anquets  all  his  train. 
Now  too  the  Satyrs,  in  the  dusk  of  eve, 
Their  mazy  dance  through  flowery  meadows  weave, 
And  neither  god  nor  goat,  but  both  in  kind, 
Silvanus,*  wreathed  with  cypress,  skips  behind. 
The  Driads  leave  their  hollow  sylvan  <  «-lls 
To  roam  the  banks  and  solitary  dells  ; 
Pan  riots  now  ;  and  from  his  amorous  chafe 
Ceres  and  Cybele  seem  hardly  safe, 
And  Faunus,t  all  on  fire  to  reach  the  prize, 
In  chase  of  some  enticing  Oread  J  flics  ; 
She  hounds  before,  but  fears  too  sNvift  a  bound, 
And  hidden  lies,  but  wishes  to  be  found. 
Our  shades  entice  the  immortals  from  above, 
And  some  kind  power  presides  o'er  every  grove  ; 
And  long,  ye  powers,  o'er  every  grove  preside, 
For  all  is  safe,  and  blessed,  where  ye  abide ! 


*  The  wood  god.  t  God  of  shepherds, 

t  A  wood  nymph. 


5  66  TRANS  LA  TIONS 


Return,  O  Jove  !  the  age  of  gold  restore — 

Why  choose  to  dwell  where  storms  and  thunder  roar  ? 

At  least  thou,  Phoebus !  moderate  thy  speed ! 

Let  not  the  vernal  hours  too  swift  proceed, 

Command  rough  winter  back,  nor  yield  the  pole 

Too  soon  to  night's  encroaching,  long  control ! 


ELEGY  VI. 

TO  CHARLES  DIODATI, 

Who,  while  he  spent  his  Christmas  in  the  country,  sent  the  author  a  poetical  epistle,  in 
which  he  requested  that  his  verses,  if  not  so  good  as  usuai,  might  be  excused  on  ac- 
count of  the  many  feasts  to  whk-h  his  friends  invited  him,  and  which  would  not  allow 
him  leisure  to  finish  them  as  he  wished. 

WITH  no  rich  viands  overcharged,  I  send 

Health,  which  perchance  you  want,  my  pampered  friend. 

But  wherefore  should  thy  Muse  tempt  mine  away 

From  what  she  loves,  from  darkness  into  day  ? 

Art  thou  desirous  to  be  told  how  well 

I  love  thee,  and  in  verse  ?  verse  cannot  tell, 

For  verse  has  bounds,  and  must  in  measure  move, 

But  neither  bounds  nor  measure  knows  my  love. 

How  pleasant,  in  thy  lines  described,  appear 

December's  harmless  sports  and  rural  cheer ! 

French  spirits  kindling  with  cserulean  fires,* 

And  all  such  gambols  as  the  time  inspires ! 

Think  not  that  wine  against  good  verse  offends, 
The  Muse  and  Bacchus  have  been  always  friends  ; 
Nor  Phoebus  blushes  sometimes  to  be  found 
With  ivy,  rather  than  with  laurel,  crowned. 
The  Nine  themselves  ofttimes  have  joined  the  song 
And  revels  of  the  Bacchanalian  throng  ; 
Not  even  Ovid  could  in  Scythian  air 
Sing  sweetly — why  ?  no  vine  would  flourish  there. 
What  in  brief  numbers  sung  Anacreorrs  Mi.se? 
Wine,  and  the  rose  that  sparkling  wine  bedews. 
Pindar  with  Bacchus  glows — his  every  line 
Breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  inspiring  wine, 
While,  with  loud  crash  o'erturned,  the  chariot  lies, 
And  brown  with  dust  the  fiery  courser  flies. 
The  Roman  lyrist  steeped  in  wine  his  lays 
So  sweet  in  Glycera's  and  Chloe's  praise. f 

*  Brandy  lighted  in  snapdragon. 
t  See  Horace,  ode  i.,  19  and  23  lines. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  567 

Now  too  the  plenteous  feast  and  mantling  bowl 
Nourish  the  vigor  of  thy  sprightly  soul ; 
The  flowing  goblet  makes  thy  numbers  flow, 
And  casks  not  wine  alone,  but  verse  bestow. 
Thus  Phoebus  favors  and  the  arts  attend, 
Whom  Bacchus  and  whom  Ceres  both  befriend. 
What  wonder,  then,  thy  verses  are  so  sweet, 
In  which  these  triple  powers  so  kindly  meet ! 
The  lute  now  also  sounds,  with  gold  inwrought, 
And  touched  with  flying  fingers  niceljr  taught, 
In  tapestried  halls,  high-roofed,  the  sprightly  lyre 
Directs  the  dances  of  the  virgin  choir. 
If  dull  repletion  fright  the  Muse  away, 
Sights  gay  as  these  may  more  invite  her  stay  ; 
And,  trust  me,  while  the  ivory  keys  resound, 
Fair  damsels  sport,  and  perfumes  steam  around, 
Apollo's  influence,  like  ethereal  flame, 
Shall  animate,  at  once,  thy  glowing  frame, 
And  all  the  Muse  shall  rush  into  tliy  Breast, 
By  love  and  music's  blended  powers  pnssest. 
For  numerous  powers  light  Elegy  befriend, 
Hear  her  sweet  voice,  and  at  her  call  attend  ; 
Her,  Bacchus,  Ceres,  Venus,  all  approve, 
And,  with  his  blushing  mother,  gentle  Love. 
Hence  to  such  bards  we  grant  the  copious  use 
Of  banquets,  and  the  vine's  delicious  juice. 
But  they  who  demigods  arid  heroes  praise, 
And  feats  performed  in  Jove's  more  youthful  days, 
Who  now  the  counsels  of  high  heaven  explore, 
Now  shades  that  echo  the  Cerberean  roar, 
Simply  let  these,  like  him  of  Samos,*  live, 
Let  herbs  to  them  a  bloodless  banquet  give  ; 
In  beechen  goblets  let  their  beverage  shine, 
Cool  from  the  crystal  spring,  their  sober  wine  I 
Their  youth  should  pass  in  innocence  secure 
From  stain  licentious,  and  in  manners  pure, 
Pure  as  the  priest,  when  Tobed  in  white  he  stands, 
The  fresh  lustration  ready  in  his  hands. 
Thus  Linus  f  lived,  and  thus,  as  poets  write, 
Tiresias,f  wiser  for  his  loss  of  sight ; 
Thus  jxiled  Chalcas,§  thus  the  Bard  of  Thrace,  |l 
Melodious  tamer  of  the  savage  race  ; 

*  Homer.  t  A  son  of  Apollo. 

J  He  was  gifted  \\itli  the  power  of  understanding  the  language  of  birds  to  atone  for 
his  loss  of  sight,  by  Pallas. 

§  The  Grecian  soothsayer  at  the  siege  of  Troy.  U  Orpheus. 


568  TRANSLA  T10NS 


Thus,  trained  by  temperance,  Homer  led,  of  3rore, 
His  chief  of  Ithaca  *  from  shore  to  shore, 
Through  magic  Circe's  monster-peopled  reign, 
And  shoals  insidious  with  the  siren  train  ; 
And  through  the  realms  where  grizzly  spectres  dwell 
Whose  tribes  he  fettered  in  a  gory  spell ; 
For  these  are  sacred  bards,  and  from  above 
Drink  large  infusions  from  the  mind  of  Jove. 

Wouldst  thou  (perhaps  'tis  hardly  worth  thine  ear) 
Wouldst  thou  be  told  my  occupation  here  ? 
The  promised  King  of  Peace  employs  my  pen, 
The  eternal  covenant  made  for  guilty  men, 
The  new-born  Deity  with  infant  cries 
Filling  the  sordid  hovel  where  he  lies, 
The  hymning  angels,  and  the  herald  star, 
That  led  the  wise  who  sought  him  from  afar, 
And  idols  on  their  own  unhallowed  shore 
Dashed,  at  his  birth,  to  be  revered  no  more. 

This  theme  f  on  reeds  of  Albion  I  rehearse  : 
The  dawn  of  that  blest  day  inspired  the  verse ; 
Verse  that,  reserved  in  secret,  shall  attend 
Thy  candid  voice,  my  critic,  and  my  friend  1 


ELEGY  VI. 

As  yet  a  stranger  to  the  gentle  fires 

That  Amathusia'sJ  smiling  queen  inspires, 

Not  seldom  I  derided  Cupid's  darts, 

And  scorned  his  claim  to  rule  all  human  hearts. 

"Go,  child,"  I  said,  "  transfix  the  timorous  dove  I 

An  easy  conquest  suits  an  infant  love  ; 

Enslave  the  sparrow,  for  such  prize  shall  be 

Sufficient  triumph  to  a  chief  like  thee  ! 

Why  aim  thy  idle  arms  at  human  kind  ? 

Thy  shafts  prevail  not  'gainst  the  noble  mind." 

The  Cyprian  heard,  and  kindling  into  ire, 
(None  kindles  sooner)  burned  with  double  fire. 

It  was  the  spring,  and  newly  risen  day 
Peeped  o'er  the  hamlets  on  the  first  of  May  ; 
My  eyes,  too  tender  for  the  blaze  of  light, 
Still  sought  the  shelter  of  retiring  night, 
When  Love  approached,  in  painted  plumes  arrayed, 
The  insidious  god  his  rattling  darts  betrayed, 


*  Ulysses.  t  The  hymn  on  the  Nativity. 

|  Venus,  so  called  from  Amathus  in  Cyprus,  where  she  had  a  tempi*. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  569 

Nor  less  his  infant  features,  and  the  sly, 
Sweet  intimations  of  his  threatening  eye. 

Such  the  Sigean  boy  *  is  seen  above 
Filling  the  goblet  for  Imperial  Jove  ; 
Such  he  on  whom  the  nymphs  bestowed  their  charms, 
Hylas,  f  who  perished  in  a  Naiad's  arms. 
Angry  lie  seemed,  yet  graceful  in  his  ire, 
And  added  threats  not  destitute  of  fire. 
"  My  power,"  he  said,  "  by  others'  pain  alone, 
'Twere  best  to  learn  j  now  learn  it  by  thy  own  ! 
With  those  that  feel  my  power,  that  power  attest, 
Arid  in  thy  anguish  be  my  sway  confest  1 
I  vanquished  Phoebus,  though  returning  vain 
From  his  new  triumph  o'er  the  Python  shun, 
And  when  he  think-  <>n  Daphne,  t  even  he 
Will  yield  the  pridf  «t'  archery  to  me. 
A  dart  less  true  the  Parthian  horseman  sped, 
Behind  him  killed,  and  conquered  as  he  fled  : 
Less  true  the  expert  Cydonian,  §  and  less  true 
The  youth  ||  whose  shaft  his  latent  Procris  slew. 
Vanquished  by  me  see  lmg«'  Orion  bend, 
By  me  Alcides,  and  Alcides'  frieiid.lf 
At  me  should  Jove  himself  a  bolt  design, 
His  bosom  first  should  bleed  transfixed  by  mine. 
But  all  thy  doubts  this  shaft  will  best  explain, 
Nor  shall  it  reach  thee  with  a  trivial  pain. 
Thy  Muse,  vain  youth,  shall  not  thy  peace  ensure, 
Nor  Phoebus'  serpent  **  yield  thy  wound  a  cure." 

He  spoke,  and,  waving  a  bright  shaft  in  air, 
Sought  the  warm  bosom  of  the  Cyprian  fair. 

That  thus  a  child  should  bluster  in  my  ear, 
Provoked  my  laughter  more  than  moved  my  fear. 
I  shunned  not,  therefore,  public  haunts,  but  strayed 
Careless  in  city  or  suburban  shade, 
And,  passing  and  re-passing,  nymphs  that  moved 
With  grace  divine  beheld  where'er  I  roved. 
Bright  shone  the  vernal  day  with  double  blaze 
As  beauty  gave  new  force  to  Phoebus'  rays. 
By  no  grave  scruples  checked  I  freely  eyed 
The  dangerous  show,  rash  youth  my  only  guide, 
And  many  a  look  of  many  a  fair  unknown 
Met  full,  unable  to  control  my  own. 

*  Ganymede.         t  The  nymphs  fell  in  love  with  him  and  drew  him  into  a  fountain 

I  She  fled  from  Apollo,  and  was  turned  into  a  laurel. 

§  The  Cydonians  were  famed  for  their  skill  in  archery. 

U  Cephalus  ;  he  shot  his  wife  Procris,  by  mistake.  H  Telamon. 

**  Esculapius,  who  came  to  Rome  in  the  form  of  a  snake. 


57°  TRANSLA  TIOMS 


But  one  I  marked  (then  peace  forsook  iny  breast), 

One — Oh  how  far  superior  to  the  rest ! 

What  lovely  features  !  such  the  Cyprian  queen 

Ilerself  might  wish,  and  Juno  wish  her  mien. 

The  very  nyinph  was  she,  whom,  when  I  dared 

His  arrows,  Love  had  even  then  prepared  ! 

Nor  was  himself  remote,  nor  unsupplied 

With  torch  well  trimmed  and  quiver  at  his  side  ; 

Now  to  her  lips  he  clung,  her  eyelids  now, 

Then  settled  on  her  cheeks,  or  on  her  brow  ; 

And  with  a  thousand  wounds  from  every  part 

Pierced  and  transpierced  my  undefended  heart. 

A  fever,  new  to  me,  of  fierce  desire 

Now  seked  my  soul,  and  I  was  all  on  fire  ; 

But  she,  the  while,  whom  only  I  adore, 

Was  gone,  and  vanished,  to  appear  no  more. 

In  silent  sadness  I  pursue  my  way  ; 

I  pause,  I  turn,  proceed,  yet  wish  to  stay, 

Arid,  while  I  follow  her  in  thought,  bemoan 

With  tears  my  soul's  delight  so  quickly  flown. 

When  Jove  had  hurled  him  to  the  Lemnian  coast, 

So  Vulcan  sorrowed  for  Olympus  lost, 

And  so  (Eclides,*  sinking  into  night, 

From  the  deep  gulf  looked  up  to  distant  light. 

Wretch  that  I  am,  what  hopes  for  me  remain, 
W'.io  cannot  cease  to  love,  yet  love  in  vain  ? 
Oh  !  could  I  once,  once  more,  behold  the  fair, 
Speak  to  her,  tell  her  of  the  pangs  I  bear  ; 
Perhaps  she  is  not  adamant ;  would  show, 
Perhaps,  some  pity  at  my  tale  of  woe. 
O  inauspicious  flame  !-  -'tis  mine  to  prove 
A  matchless  instance  of  disastrous  love. 
Ah  !  spare  me,  gentle  power  ! — If  such  thou  be, 
Let  not  thy  deeds  and  nature  disagree. 
Spare  me,  and  I  will  worship  at  no  shrine 
With  vow  and  sacrifice  save  only  thine. 
Now  I  revere  thy  fires,  thy  bow,  thy  darts  : 
Now  own  thee  sovereign  of  all  human  hearts. 
Remove  I  no — grant  me  still  this  raging  woe  ! 
Sweet  is  the  wretchedness  that  lovers  know  : 
But  pierce  hereafter  (should  I  chance  to  see 
One  destined  mine)  at  once  both  her  and  me. 

Such  were  the  trophies  that,  in  earlier  days, 
By  Vanity  seduced,  I  toiled  to  raise  ; 

*  One  of  the  Argonauts.    He  was  swallowed  up  by  the  earth. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TJX  POEMS,  571 


Studious,  yet  indolent,  and  urged  by  Youth, 
That  worst  of  teachers  !  lY<»m  the  ways  of  Truth  ; 
Till  Learning  taught  me  in  his  shady  bower 
To  quit  Love's  servile  yoke,  and  spurn  his  power. 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  the  fierce  flame  suppressed, 
A  frost  continual  settled  on  my  breast, 
Whence  Cupid  fears  his  flames  extinct  to  see, 
And  Venus  dreads  a  Diomede  in  uie. 


EPIGRAMS. 

ON  THE  INVENTOR  OF  GUNS. 

PRAISE  in  old  time  the  sage  Prometheus  won, 
Who  stole  ethereal  radiance  from  the  sun  ; 
But  greater  he,  whose  bold  invention  strove 
To  emulate  the  fiery  bolts  of  Jove. 

[The  Poems  on  the  subject  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason  1  have  not  translated,  both  be- 
cause the  matter  of  them  Is  unpleasant,  and  because  they  are  writti-n  with  an  asperity, 
which,  however  it  might  be  warranted  in  .Milton's  day,  would  be  extremely  unseason- 
able now.— ('.] 

TO  LEONORA*  SINGING  AT  ROME.f 

ANOTHER  Leonora  once  inspired 

Tasso,  with  fatal  love  to  phrensy  fired  ; 

But  how  much  happier,  lived  he  now,  were  he, 

Pierced  with  whatever  pangs  for  love  of  thee  ! 

Since  could  he  hear  that  heavenly  voice  of  thine, 

With  Adriana's  %  lute  of  sound  divine, 

Fiercer  than  Pentheus'  §  though  his  eye  might  rolli 

Or  idiot  apathy  benumb  his  soul, 

You  still,  with  medicinal  sounds  might  cheer 

His  senses  wandering  in  a  blind  career ; 

And,  sweetly  breathing  through  his  wounded  breast, 

Charm,  with  soul-soothing  song,  his  thoughts  to  rest, 

TO  THE  SAME. 

NAPLES,  too  credulous,  ah  !  boast  no  more 
The  sweet- voiced  siren  buried  on  thy  shore, 

*  Leonora  Baroni,  a  celebrated  singer.    Milton  heard  her  at  Cardinal  Barberini's. 
t  "  I  have  translated  only  two  of  the  three  poetical  compliments  addressed  to  Leon- 
ora, as  they  appear  to  me  far  superior  to  what  I  have  omitted." — C. 
$  Her  mother,  who  accompanied  her  on  the  lute.  §  A  mad  king  of  Thebes. 


572  TRANSLATIONS 


That  when  Parthenope  *  deceased,  she  gave 

Her  sacred  dust  to  a  Chalcidic  f  grave, 

For  still  she  lives,  but  has  exchanged  the  hoarse 

Pausilipo  for  Tiber's  placid  course, 

Where,  idol  of  all  Rome,  she  now  in  chains 

Of  magic  song  both  gods  and  men  detains. 

THE  COTTAGER  AND  HIS  LANDLORD. 

A   FABLE. 

A  PEASANT  to  his  lord  yearly  court, 
Presenting  pippins  of  so  rich  a  sort 
That  he,  displeased  to  have  a  part  alone, 
Removed  the  tree,  that  all  might  be  his  own. 
The  tree,  too  old  to  travel,  though  before 
So  fruitful,  withered,  and  would  yield  no  more. 
The  squire,  perceiving  all  his  labor  void, 
Cursed  his  own  pains,  so  foolishly  employed, 
And  "  Oh,"  he  cried,  "  that  I  had  lived  content 
With  tribute,  small  indeed,  but  kindly  meant ! 
My  avarice  has  expensive  proved  to  me, 
Has  cost  me  both  my  pippins  and  my  tree." 

TO  CHRISTINA,  QUEEN  OF  SWEDEN. 

WRITT3N  AS  FOR  CROMWELL,  AND  TO  BE  SENT  WITH  HIS  PICTURE, 

CHRISTINA,  maiden  of  heroic  mien ! 
Star  of  the  North  !  of  northern  stars  the  queen ! 
Behold  what  wrinkles  I  have  earned,  and  how 
The  iron  casque  still  chafes  my  veteran  brow, 
While,  following  Fate's  dark  footsteps,  I  fulfil 
The  dictates  of  a  hardy  people's  will. 
But  softened  in  thy  sight  my  looks  appear, 
Not  to  all  queens  or  kings  alike  severe. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VICE-CHANCELLOR, 

A  PHYSICIAN4 

LEARN,  ye  nations  of  the  earth, 
The  condition  of  your  birth, 


*One  of  the  syrens.    tFrom  Chalcis,  whence  the  Greek  colonies  of  South  Italy  came 
I  The  Vice-Chancellor  was  Dr.  John  Goslyn,  Regius  Profesaor  of  Medicine  at  Cam- 
bridge.   He  died  on  the  21st  October,  1626. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  573 

Now  be  taught  your  feeble  state  I 
Know,  that  all  must  yield  to  fate  ! 

If  the  mournful  rover,  Death, 

Say  but  once — "  Resign  your  breath  ! ' 

Vainly  of  escape  you  dream, 

You  must  pass  the  Stygian  stream. 

Could  the  stoutest  overcome 
Death's  assault,  and  baffle  doom, 
Hercules  had  both  withstood, 
Undiseased  by  Nessus'  *  blood.  / 

Ne'er  had  Hector  pressed  the  plain, 
By  a  trick  of  Pallas  slain, 
Nor  the  chief  to  Jove  allied  f 
By  Achilles'  phantom  died. 

Could  enchantments  life  prolong, 
Circe,  saved  by  magic  song, 
Still  had  lived,  and  equal  skill 
Had  preserved  Medea  %  still. 

Dwelt  in  herbs  and  drujrs  a  power 
To  avert  man's  destined  hour, 
Learned  Machaon§  should  have  known 
Doubtless  to  avert  his  own. 

Chiron  ||  had  survived  the  smart 
Of  the  hydra-tainted  dart, 
And  Jove's  bolt  had  been,  with  ease, 
Foiled  by  Asclepiades.TT 

Thou  too,  sage  I  of  whom  forlorn 
Helicon  and  Cirrha**  mourn. 
Still  hadst  filled  thy  princely  place, 
Regent  of  the  gowned  race  : 

Hadst  advanced  to  higher  fame 
Still  thy  much  ennobled  name, 
Nor  in  Charon's  skiff  explored 
The  Tartarean  gulf  abhorred. 


*  A  centaur  whom  Hercules  shot  with  a  poisoned  arrow.    The  hero  was  poisoned  bj 
che  centaur's  blood-stained  robe,  which  he  was  induced  to  put  on. 

t  Sarpedon.  J  Circe  and  Medea  were  enchantresses. 

§  Son  of  EscnJapius.  He  was  leech  to  the  Greeks  during  the  siege  of  Troy. 

\  A  centaur  learned  in  medicine.  U  EscuJapius.    He  was  killed  by  lightning. 

*  *  Delphi. 


574  TRANSLATIONS 


But  resentful  Proserpine, 
Jealous  of  thy  skill  divine, 
Snapping  short  thy  vital  thread, 
Thee  too  numbered  with  the  dead. 

Wise  and  good  !  untroubled  be 
The  green  turf  that  covers  thee  I 
Thence,  in  gay  profusion,  grow 
All  the  sweetest  flowers  that  blow  I 

Pluto's  consort  bid  thee  rest ! 
j-Eacus*  pronounce  thee  blest! 
To  her  home  thy  shade  consign  I 
Make  Elysium  ever  thine  1 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  BISHOP  OF  ELY.f 

MY  lids  with  grief  were  tumid  yet, 

And  still  my  sullied  cheek  was  wet 

With  briny  dews,  profusely  shed 

For  venerable  Winton  dead  ;  % 

When  fame,  whose  tales  of  saddest  sound, 

Alas  1  are  ever  truest  found, 

The  news  through  all  our  cities  spread 

Of  yet  another  mitred  head 

By  ruthless  fate  to  death  consigned, 

Ely,  the  honor  of  his  kind  ! 

At  once  a  storm  of  passion  heaved 
My  boiling  bosom,  much  I  grieved; 
But  more  I  raged,  at  every  breath 
Devoting  Death  himself  to  death. 
With  less  revenge  did  Naso  §  teem 
When  hated  Ibis  was  his  theme  ; 
With  less  Archilochus  ||  denied 
The  lovely  Greek  his  promised  bride. 

But  lo  !  while  thus  I  execrate 
Incensed  the  minister  of  fate, 
Wondrous  accents,  soft,  yet  clear, 
Wafted  on  the  gale  I  hear. 

"  Ah,  much  deluded  !  lay  aside 
Thy  threats,  and  anger  misapplied ! 


*  One  of  the  judges  of  the  dead.  t  Nicholas  Felton,  Bishop  ot%  Ely. 

*  Dr.  Felton  died  a  few  days  after  Andrewes,  Bishop  of  Winchester.  §  Ovid. 
||  A  Greek  poet.    He  was  refused  as  a  suitor  to  his  daughter  by  Lycambes,  and  in 

r«venge  lampooned  the  whole  family.    Lycambes'  daughters  hanged  themselves. 


FROM  MIL  TOWS  LA  TIN  POEMS.  575 

Art  not  afraid  with  sounds  like  these 

To  offend  where  thou  canst  not  appease  ? 

Death  is  not  (wherefore  dreamest  thou  thus  ?) 

The  son  of  night  and  Erebus : 

Nor  was  of  fell  Erynnis  born 

On  gulfs  where  Chaos  rules  forlorn, 

But  sent  from  God,  His  presence  leaves, 

To  gather  home  his  ripened  sheaves, 

To  call  encumbered  souls  away 

From  fleshly  bonds  to  boundless  day, 

(As  when  the  winged  hours  excite, 

And  summon  forth  the  morning  light) 

And  each  to  convoy  to  her  place 

Before  the  Eternal  Father's  face. 

But  not  the  wicked — them,  severe 

Yet  just,  from  all  their  pleasures  here 

He  hurries  to  the  realms  below, 

Terrific  realms  of  penal  woe  1 

Myself  no  sooner  heard  His  call, 

Than,  'scaping  through  my  prison  wall, 

I  bade  adieu  to  bolts  and  bars, 

And  soared,  with  angols,  to  the  stars. 

Like  him  of  old,  to  whom  'twas  given 

To  mount  on  fiery  wheels  to  heaven. 

Bootes'  wagon,  *  slow  with  cold, 

Appalled  me  not ;  nor  to  behold 

The  sword  that  vast  Orion  draws, 

Or  even  the  scorpion's  horrid  claws.f 

Beyond  the  sun's  bright  orb  I  fly, 

And  far  beneath  my  feet  descry 

Night's  dread  goddess,  seen  with  awe, 

Whom  her  winged  dragons  draw. 

Thus,  ever  wondering  at  my  speed, 

Augmented  still  as  I  proceed, 

I  pass  the  planetary  sphere, 

The  milky  way — and  now  appear 

Heaven's  crystal  battlements,  her  door 

Of  massy  pearl,  and  emerald  floor. 

"  But  here  I  cease.     For  never  can 
The  tongue  of  once  a  mortal  man 
In  suitable  description  trace 
The  pleasures  of  that  happy  place  ; 
Suffice  it,  that  those  joys  divine 
Are  all,  and  all  forever,  mine ! ' 

•  The  Great  Bear.  t  The  constellations. 


576  TRANSLATIONS 


NATURE  UNIMPAIRED  BY  TIME. 

AH,  how  the  human  mind  wearies  herself 

With  her  own  wanderings,  and,  involved  in  gloom 

Impenetrable,  speculates  amiss ! 

Measuring  in  her  folly  things  divine 

By  human  ;  laws  inscribed  on  adamant, 

By  laws  of  man's  device,  and  counsels  fixed 

Forever,  by  the  hours  that  pass  and  die. 

How  ? — shall  the  face  of  Nature  then  be  ploughed 

Into  deep  wrinkles,  and  shall  years  at  last 

On  the  great  parent  fix  a  sterile  curse  ? 

Shall  even  she  confess  old  age,  and  halt, 

And  palsy-smitten,  shake  her  starry  brows  ? 

Shall  foul  Antiquity  with  rust,  and  Drought 

And  Famine,  vex  the  radiant  worlds  above  ? 

Shall  Time's  unsated  maw  crave  and  ingulf 

The  very  heavens  that  regulate  his  flight  ? 

And  was  the  Sire  of  All  able  to  fence 

His  works,  and  to  uphold  the  circling  worlds, 

But,  through  improvident  and  heedless  haste, 

Let  slip  the  occasion  ? — so  then — all  is  lost- 

And  in  some  future  evil  hour,  yon  arch 

Shall  crumble  and  come  thundering  down,  the  poles 

Jar  in  collision,  the  Olympian  king 

Fall  with  his  throne,  and  Pallas,  holding  forth 

The  terrors  of  the  Grorgon  shield*  in  vain, 

Shall  rush, to  the  Abyss,  like  Vulcan  hurled 

Down  into  Lemnos,  through  the  gate  of  heaven. 

Thou  also,  with  precipitated  wheels, 

Phoebus  !  thy  own  son's  fall  f  shall  imitate, 

With  hideous  ruin  shall  impress  the  deep 

Suddenly,  and  the  flood  shall  reek  and  hiss, 

At  the  extinction  of  the  lamp  of  day. 

Then  too  shall  Hsemus,  cloven  to  his  base, 

Be  shattered,  and  the  huge  Ceraunian  hills, 

Once  weapons  of  the  Tartarean  Dis,  immersed 

In  Erebus,  shall  fill  himself  with  fear. 

No.     The  Almighty  Father  surer  laid 
His  deep  foundations,  and,  providing  well 
For  the  event  of  all,  the  scales  of  Fate 
Suspended  in  just  equipoise,  and  bade 

=*•  .  .    i    .  .  .  .   . -  -  .  -     __    _.  _      __L_   _    -_  

*  Minerva  had  the  head  of  the  Gorgon  Medusa  iii  her  shield  ;   it  turned  all 
looked  on  it  into  stone. 

t  Phaeton,  who  fell  from  the  chariot  of  the  sun  while  driving  it. 


FROM  MIL  TON 'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  5  7  J 

His  universal  works,  from  age  to  age, 
One  tenor  hold,  perpetual,  undisturbed. 

Hence  the  prime  mover  wheels  itself  about 
Continual,  day  by  day,  and  with  it  bears 
In  social  measure  swift,  the  heavens  around. 
Not  tardier  now  is  Saturn  than  of  old, 
Nor  radiant  less  the  burning  casque  of  Mars. 
Phoebus,  his  vigor  unimpaired,  still  shows 
The  effulgence  of  his  youth,  nor  needs  the  god 
A  downward  course,  that  he  may  warm  the  vales ; 
But,  ever  rich  in  influence,  runs  his  road, 
Sign  after  sign,  through  all  the  heavenly  zone. 
Beautiful,  as  at  first,  ascends  the  star  * 
From  odoriferous  Ind,  whose  office  is 
To  gather  home  betimes  the  ethereal  flock, 
To  pour  them  o'er  the  skies  again  at  eve, 
And  to  discriminate  the  night  arid  day. 
Still  Cynthia's  changeful  horn  waxes  and  wanes 
Alternate,  and  with  arms  extended  still 
She  welcomes  to  her  breast  her  brother's  beams. 
Nor  have  the  elements  deserted  yet 
Their  functions  ;  thunder  with  as  loud  a  stroke 
As  erst  smites  through  the  rocks  and  scatters  them  \ 
The  east  still  howls  ;  still  the  relentless  north 
Invades  the  shuddering  Scythian,  still  he  breathes 
The  winter,  and  still  mils  the  storms  along; 
The  king  of  ocean,  with  his  wonted  force, 
Beats  on  Pelorus ;  f  o'er  the  deep  is  heard 
The  hoarse  alarm  of  Triton's  sounding  shell  ; 
Nor  swim  the  monsters  of  th'  ^Egean  sea 
In  shallows,  or  beneath  diminished  waves. 
Thou  too,  thy  ancient  vegetative  power 
Enjoy'st,  O  Earth !  Narcissus  still  is  sweet  ; 
And,  Phoebus!  still  thy  favorite,  and  still 
Thy  favorite,  Cytheria.J  both  retain 
Their  beauty ;  nor  the  mountains,  ore  enriched 
For  punishment  of  man.  with  purer  gold 
Teemed  ever,  or  with  brighter  gems  the  deep. 

Thus  in  unbroken  series  all  proceeds ; 
Arid  shall,  till  wide  involving  either  pole, 
And  the  immensity  of  yonder  heaven, 
The  final  flames  of  destiny  absorb 
The  world,  consumed  in  one  enormous  pyre  ! 

*  Venus.  t  North-east  promontory  of  Sicily  e 

\  The  hyacinth,  favorite  of  Apollo.    The  anemone,  favorite  of  Venus. 


578  TRANSLA  TIONS 


ON  THE  PLATONIC  IDEA  AS  IT  WAS  UNDERSTOOD 

BY  ARISTOTLE. 

YE  sister  powers,  who  o'er  the  sacred  groves 

Preside,  and  thou,  fair  mother  of  them  all, 

Mnemosyne !  *  and  thou  who,  in  thy  grot 

Immense,  reclined  at  leisure,  hast  in  charge 

The  archives  and  the  ordinances  of  Jove, 

And  dost  record  the  festivals  of  heaven, 

Eternity  ! — inform  us  who  is  He, 

That  great  original  by  nature  chosen 

To  be  the  archetype  of  human  kind, 

Unchangeable,  immortal,  with  the  poles 

Themselves  coeval,  one,  yet  everywhere, 

An  image  of  the  God  who  gave  him  being  ? 

Twin-brother  of  the  goddess  born  from  Jove,f 

He  dwells  not  in  his  father's  mind,  but,  though 

Of  common  nature  with  ourselves,  exists 

Apart,  and  occupies  a  local  home. 

Whether,  companion  of  the  stars,  he  spend 

Eternal  ages,  roaming  at  his  will 

From  sphere  to  sphere  the  tenfold  heavens,  or  dwell 

On  the  moon's  side  that  nearest  neighbors  earth, 

Or  torpid  on  the  banks  of  Lethe  %  sit 

Among  the  multitude  of  souls  ordained 

To  flesh  and  blood !  or  whether  (as  may  chance) 

That  vast  and  giant  model  of  our  kind 

In  some  far  distant  region  of  this  globe 

Sequestered  stalk,  with  lifted  head  on  high 

O'ertowering  Atlas,  on  whose  shoulders  rest 

The  stars,  terrific  even  to  the  gods. 

Never  the  Theban  seer,§  whose  blindness  proved 

His  best  illumination,  him  beheld 

In  secret  vision  ;  never  him  the  son 

Of  Pleione,||  amid  the  noiseless  night 

Descending,  to  the  prophet-choir  revealed  ; 

Him  never  knew  the  Assyrian  priest,!  who  yet 

The  ancestry  of  Ninus  chronicles, 

And  Belus,  and  Osiris,  far  renowned  ; 

Nor  even  thrice  great  Hermes,**  although  skilled 

So  deep  in  mystery,  to  the  worshippers 

Of  Isis  showed  a  prodigy  like  him. 


*  Goddess  of  Memory  and  mother  of  the  Muses.  t  Pall.-is. 

t  Waters  of  oblivion  or  forgetfulness.  §  Tiresias,  already  named, 

I  Hermes  or  Mercury.  f  Sancoiiiathon. 

*»  Hermes  Trismegistus,  the  author  of  Neo-Platonic  works  much  esteemed. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  579 

And  thou,*  who  hast  immortalized  the  shades 
Of  Academus,  if  the  schools  received 
This  monster  of  the  fancy  first  from  thee, 
Either  recall  at  once  the  banished  bards 
To  thy  republic,  or  thyself,  evinced 
A  wilder  fabulist,  go  also  forth. 

TO  HIS  FATHER. 

OH  that  Pieria'sf  spring  would  through  my  breast 

Pour  its  inspiring  influence,  and  rush 

No  rill,  but  rather  an  o'erflowing  flood  ! 

That,  for  my  venerable  father's  sake 

All  meaner  themes  renounced,  my  Muse,  on  wings 

( )f  duty  borne,  might  reach  a  loftier  strain. 

For  thee,  my  father  !   howsoe'er  it  please, 

She  frames  this  slender  work ;  nor  know  I  aught 

That  may  thy  gifts  more  suitably  requite  ; 

Though  to  requite  them  suitably  would  ask 

Returns  much  nobler,  and  surpassing  far 

The  meagre  stores  of  verbal  gratitude : 

But,  such  a<  I  ]•          ~,  I  send  thee  all. 

This  page  presents  tliec  in  their  full  amount 

With  thy  son's  treaMires.  and  the  sum  is  nought  ; 

Nought,  save  the  riches  from  that  airy  dream 

In  secret  grott<»  and  in  laurel  bowers, 

I  have,  by  golden  (  Mio's  %  <j-ift  acquired. 

Verse  is  a  work  divine  ;  despi>e  not  thou 
Verse,  therefore,  which  evinces  (nothing  more) 
Man's  heavenly  source,  and  which,  retaining  still 
Some  scintillations  of  Promethean  fire, 
Bespeaks  him  animated  from  above. 
The  gods  love  verse ;  the  infernal  powers  themselves 
Confess  the  influence  of  verse,  which  stirs 
The  lowest  deep  and  binds  in  triple  chains 
Of  adamant  both  Pluto  and  the  shades. 
In  verse  the  Delphic  priestess,  and  the  pale. 
Tremulous  Sibyl,  make  the  future  known  ; 
And  he  who  sacrifices,  on  the  shrine 
Hangs  verse,  both  when  he  smites  the  threatening  bull, 
And  when  he  spreads  his  reeking  entrails  wide 
To  scrutinize  the  fates  enveloped  there. 
We  too,  ourselves,  what  time  we  seek  again 
Our  native  skies,  and  one  eternal  now 


•  Plato.  t  A  fount  sacred  to  the  Muses.  $  The  Muse  of  History. 


580  TRANSLA  TIONS 

Shall  be  the  only  measure  of  our  being, 
Crowned  all  with  gold,  and  chanting  to  the  lyre 
Harmonious  verse,  shall  range  the  courts  above, 
And  make  the  starry  firmament  resound. 
And,  even  now,  the  fiery  spirit  pure 
That  wheels  yon  circling  orbs,  directs  himself 
Their  mazy  dance  with  melody  of  verse 
Unutterable,  immortal,  hearing  which 
Huge  Ophjuchus  *  holds  his  hiss  suppressed  ; 
Orion,  softened,  drops  his  ardent  blade, 
And  Atlas  stands  unconscious  of  his  load. 
Verse  graced  of  old  the  feasts  of  kings,  ere  yet 
Luxurious  dainties,  destined  to  the  gulf 
Immense  of  gluttony,  were  known,  and  ere 
Lyseus  f  deluged  yet  the  temperate  board. 
Then  sat  the  bard  a  customary  guest 
To  share  the  banquet,  and,  his  length  of  locks 
With  beechin  honors  bound,  proposed  in  verse 
The  characters  of  heroes,  and  their  deeds 
To  imitation,  sang  of  chaos  old, 
Of  Nature's  birth,  of  gods  that  crept  in  search 
Of  acorns  fallen,  and  of  the  thunderbolt 
Not  yet  produced  from  Etna's  fiery  cave. 
And  what  avails,  at  last,  tune  without  voice, 
Devoid  of  matter  ?    Such  may  suit  perhaps 
The  rural  dance,  but  such  was  ne'er  the  song 
Of  Orpheus,  whom  the  streams  stood  still  to  hear, 
And  the  oaks  followed.     Not  by  chords  alone 
Well  touched,  but  by  resistless  accents  more 
To  sympathetic  tears  the  ghosts  themselves 
He  moved  ;  these  praises  to  his  verse  he  owes. 
Nor  thou  persist,  I  pray  thee,  still  to  slight 
The  sacred  Nine,  and  to  imagine  vain 
And  useless,  powers,  by  whom  inspired,  thyself 
Art  skilful  to  associate  verse  with  airs 
Harmonious,  and  to  give  the  human  voice 
A  thousand  modulations,  heir  by  right 
Indisputable  of  Arion's  fame.J 
Now  say,  what  wonder  is  it,  if  a  son 
Of  thine  delight  in  verse,  if  so  conjoined 
In  close  affinity,  we  sympathize 
In  social  arts  and  kindred  studies  sweet  ? 
Such  distribution  of  himself  to  us 
Was  Phoebus'  choice  ;  thou  hast  thy  gift,  and  I 


*  The  Serpent,  a  constellation.  t  Bacchus. 

\  Milton's  father  was  a  fine  musician. 


FROM  MIL  TON  S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  5  8 1 

Mine  also,  and  between  us  we  receive, 
Father  and  son,  the  whole  inspiring  God. 

No  !  howsoe'er  the  semblance  thou  assume 
Of  hate,  thou  hatest  not  the  gentle  MUM-. 
My  father  !  for  thou  never  bad'st  me  tread 
The  beaten  path,  and  broad,  that  leads  right  on 
To  opulence,  nor  didst  condemn  thy  son 
To  the  insipid  clamors  of  the  bar, 
To  laws  voluminous,  and  ill  observed ; 
But,  wishing  to  enrich  me  more,  to  fill 
My  mind  with  treasure.  I--.|st  me  far  away, 
From  city  din  to  de->p  retreats,  to  bauk> 
And  streams  Aonian.  and.  with  free  consent, 
Didst  place  me  happy  at  Apollo's  side. 
1  -peak  not  now,  on  more  important  themes 
Intent,  of  common  benefit?.,  and  such 
As  nature  l>i<l-.  but  of  thy  larger  gifts, 
My  father  !   who,  when  1  had  opened  once 
The  stores  of  Roman  rhetoric,  and  learned 
The  full-toned  language  of  the  eloquent  Greeks, 
Whose  lofty  music  ^ra--ed  the  lip-  of  Jove, 
Thyself  didst  counsel  me  to  add  the  lluw.-r- 
That  (iallia  boasts;   those  too,  with  which  the  smooth 
Italian  his  degenerate  speech  adorn>. 
That  witne.-ses  his  mixture  with  the  Goth  ; 
And  Palestine':-,  prophetic  sonu-  divine. 
To  sum  the  whole,  whateVr  the  1,, -ax-en  contains. 
The  earth  beneath  it.  and  the  air  between 
The  rivers  and  the  r«--t  less  deep  may  all 
Prove  intellectual  gain  to  me,  my  wi-h 
Concurring  with  thy  will  ;  science  herself, 
All  cloud  removed,  incline-  llrr  beauteous  head, 
And  offers  me  the  lip,  if.  dull  of  heart. 
I  shrink  not,  and  decline  her  gracious  boon. 

Go  now,  and  gather  dross,  ye  sordid  minds. 
That  covet  it  ;    what  could  my  father  mop 
What  more  could  Jove  himself,  unle-s  he  gave 
His  own  abode,  the  heaven  in  which  he  reigns? 
More  eligible  gifts  than  these  were  not 
Apollo's  to  his  son,  had  they  been  safe 
As  they  were  insecure,  who  made  the  boy 
The  world's  vice-luminary,  bade  him  rule 
The  radiant  chariot  of  the  day,  and  bind 
To  his  young  brows  hi>  own  all-dazzling  wreath. 
I  therefore,  although  last  and  least,  my  place 
Among  the  learned  in  the  laurel  grove 


582  TRANSLATIONS 


Will  hold,  and  where  the  conqueror's  ivy  twines, 
Henceforth  exempt  from  the  unlettered  throng 
Profane,  nor  even  to  be  seen  by  such. 
Away  then,  sleepless  Care,  Complaint,  away, 
And  Envy,  with  thy  "  jealous  leer  malign  !  " 
Nor  let  the  monster  Calumny  shoot  forth 
Her  venomed  tongue  at  me.     Detested  foes ! 
Ye  all  are  impotent  against  my  peace, 
For  I  am  privileged,  and  bear  my  breast 
Safe,  and  too  high,  for  your  viperean  wound. 

But  thou  !  my  father,  since  to  render  thanks 
Equivalent,  and  to  requite  by  deeds 
Thy  liberality,  exceeds  my  power. 
Suffice  it,  that  I  thus  record  thy  gifts, 
And  bear  them  treasured  in  a  grateful  mind  I 
Ye,  too,  the  favorite  pastime  of  my  youth, 
My  voluntary  numbers,  if  ye  dare 
To  hope  longevity,  and  to  survive 
Your  master's  funeral,  not  soon  absorbed 
In  the  oblivious  Lethaean  gulf, 
Shall  to  futurity  perhaps  convey 
This  theme,  and  by  these  praises  of  my  sire 
Improve  the  fathers  of  a  distant  age  ! 

TO  SALSILLUS,  A  ROMAN  POET,  MUCH  INDISPOSED. 

The  original  is  written  in  a  measure  called  Scazon,  which  signifies  limping,  and  the 
measure  is  so  denominated,  because,  though  in  other  respects  Iambic,  it  terminates 
with  a  Spondee,  and  has,  consequently,  a  more  tardy  movement. 

The  reader  will  immediately  see  that  this  property  of  the  Latin  verse  cannot  be 
imitated  in  English. 

MY  halting  Muse,  that  dragg'st  by  choice  along 
Thy  slow,  slow  step,  in  melancholy  song, 
And  lik'st  that  pace,  expressive  of  thy  cares, 
Not  less  than  Deiopeia's  *  sprightlier  air?, 
>Yhen  in  the  dance  she  beats  with  measured  tread 
Heaven's  floor,  in  front  of  Juno's  golden  bed  ; 
Salute  Salsillus,  who  to  verse  divine 
Prefers,  with  partial  love,  such  lays  as  mine. 
Thus  writes  that  Milton,  then,  who,  wafted  o'er 
From  his  own  nest  on  Albion's  stormy  shore, 
Where  Eurus,  fiercest  of  the  ^olian  band, 
Sweeps  with  ungoverned  rage  the  blasted  land, 
Of  late  to  more  serene  Ausonia  came 
To  view  her  cities  of  illustrious  name, 


*  One  of  Juno's  nymphs. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  583 

To  prove,  himself  a  witness  of  the  truth 

How  wise  her  elders,  and  how  learn'd  her  youth, 

Much  good,  Salsillus  !  and  a  body  free 

From  all  disease,  that  Milton  asks  for  thee, 

Who  now  endur'st  the  languor  and  the  pains 

That  bile  inflicts,  diffused  through  all  thy  veins ; 

Relentless  malady,  not  moved  to  spare 

By  thy  sweet  Roman  voice  and  the  Lesbian  air  ! 

Health,  Hebe's  sister,  sent  us  from  the  skies, 
And  thou,  Apollo,  whom  all  sickness  flies, 
Pythius,  or  Paean,  or  what  name  divine 
Soe'er  thou  choose,  haste,  heal  a  priest  of  thine  I 
Ye  groves  of  Faunus,  and  ye  hills  that  melt 
With  vinous  dews,  where  meek  Evander  dwelt !  * 
If  aught  salubrious  in  your  confines  grow, 
Strive  which  shall  soonest  heal  your  poet's  woe, 
That,  rendered  to  the  Muse  he  loves,  again 
He  may  enchant  the  meadows  with  his  strain. 
Numa,  reclined  in  everlasting  ease 
Amid  the  shade  of  dark  embowering  trees, 
Viewing  with  eyes  of  unabated  fire 
His  loved  JEgeria,  shall  that  strain  admire : 
So  soothed,  the  tumid  Tiber  shall  revere 
The  tombs  of  kin^s,  nor  desolate  the  year, 
Shall  curb  his  waters  with  a  friendly  rein, 
And  guide  them  harmless  till  they  meet  the  main. 


TO  GIOVANNI  BATTISTA  MANSO, 

MARQUIS    OP    VILLA. 

MILTON'S  ACCOUNT  OF  MANSO. 

Giovanni  Battista  Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  is  an  Italian  nobleman  of  the  highest 
estimation  among  his  countrymen,  for  genius,  literature,  and  military  accomplish- 
ments. To  him  Torquatto  Tasso  addressed  his  dialogue*  on  Friendship,  for  he  wai 
much  the  friend  of  Tasso,  who  has  also  celebrated  him  among  the  other  princes  of  his 
country,  in  his  poem  entitled,  Gerusalemme  Conquistata,  book  xx. 

Fra  cavalier  magnanimi,  e  cortesi, 
Kisplende  il  Manso. 

During  the  Author's  stay  at  Naples  he  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Marquis  a  thousand 
kind  offices  and  civilities,  and  desirous  not  to  appear  ungrateful,  sent  him  this  poem  a 
short  time  before  his  departure  from  that  city. 

THESE  verses  also  to  thy  praise,  the  Nine, 
O  Manso  !  happy  in  that  theme,  design, 
For,  Gallus  and  Maecenas  gone,  they  see 
None  such  besides,  or  whom  they  love  as  thee ; 

*  The  Aventine  hill.    For  "  Evander,"  see  page  536. 


584  TRANSLA  TIONS 


And  if  my  verse  may  give  the  meed  of  fame, 

Thine  too  shall  prove  an  everlasting  name. 

Already  such,  it  shines  in  Tasso's  page 

(For  thou  wast  Tasso's  friend)  from  age  to  age, 

And,  next,  the  Muse  consigned  (not  unaware 

How  high  the  charge)  Marino  to  thy  care, 

Who,  singing  to  the  nymphs  Adonis'  praise, 

Boasts  thee  the  patron  of  his  copious  lays. 

To  thee  alone  the  poet  would  entrust 

His  latest  vows,  to  thee  alone  is  dust ; 

And  thou  with  punctual  piety  hast  paid, 

In  labored  brass,  thy  tribute  to  his  shade. 

Nor  this  contented  thee — but  lest  the  grave 

Should  aught  absorb  of  theirs  which  thou  couldst  save, 

All  future  ages  thou  hast  deigned  to  teach 

The  life,  lot,  genius,  character  of  each, 

Eloquent  as  the  Carian  sage,  who,  true 

To  his  great  theme,  the  life  of  Homer  drew. 

I,  therefore,  though  a  stranger  youth,  who  come, 
Chilled  by  rude  blasts  that  freeze  my  northern  home, 
Thee,  dear  to  Clio,  confident  proclaim, 
And  thine,  for  Phoebus'  sake,  a  deathless  name. 
Nor  thou,  so  kind,  wilt  view  with  scornful  eye 
A  muse  scarce  reared  beneath  our  sullen  sky 
Who  fears  not,  indiscreet  as  she  is  young, 
To  seek  in  Latium  hearers  of  her  song. 
We  too,  where  Thames  with  its  unsullied  waves 
The  tresses  of  the  blue-haired  Ocean  laves, 
Hear  oft,  by  night,  or,  slumbering,  seem  to  hear, 
O'er  his  wide  stream,  the  swan's  voice  warbling  clear ; 
And  we  could  boast  a  Tityrus  *  of  yore 
Who  trod,  a  welcome  guest,  your  happy  shore. 

Yes — dreary  as  we  own  our  northern  clime, 
Even  we  to  Phoebus  raise  the  polished  rhyme, 
We  too  serve  Phoebus  ;  Phoebus  has  received 
(If  legends  old  may  claim  to  be  believed) 
No  sordid  gifts  from  us,  the  golden  ear, 
The  burnished  apple,  ruddiest  of  the  year, 
The  fragrant  crocus,  and,  to  grace  his  fane, 
Fair  damsels  chosen  from  the  Druid  train  \ 
Druids,  our  native  bards  in  ancient  time, 
Who  gods  and  heroes  praised  in  hallowed  rhyme  ! 
Hence,  often  as  the  maids  of  Greece  surround 
Apollo's  shrine  with  hymns  of  festive  sound, 


*  Chaucer,  called  in  Spenser's  Pastorals  Tityrus. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  585 

They  name  the  virgins  who  arrived  of  yore 

With  British  offerings  on  the  Delian  shore, 

Loxo,*  from  giant  Corineus  sprung, 

Upis,f  on  whose  blest  lips  the  future  hung, 

Arid  Hecaerge,  with  the  golden  hair, 

All  decked  with  Pictish  hues,  and  all  with  bosoms  bare. 

Thou,  therefore,  happy  sage,  whatever  clime 
Shall  ring  with  Tasso's  praise  in  after  time, 
Or  with  Marino's,  shall  be  known  their  friend, 
And  with  an  equal  flight  to  fame  ascend. 
The  world  shall  hear  how  Phoebus  and  the  Nine 
Were  inmates  once,  and  willing  guests  of  thine. 
Yet  Phoebus,  when  of  old  constrained  to  roaiu 
The  earth,  an  exile  from  his  heavenly  home, 
Entered,  no  willing  guest,  Admetus'  door.J 
Though  Hercules  had  ventured  there  before. 
But  gentle  Chiron's  cave  was  near,  a  scene 
Of  rural  peace,  clothed  with  perpetual  green, 
And  thither,  oft  as  respite  he  required 
From  rustic  clamors  loud,  the  god  retired. 
There,  many  a  time,  on  Peneus'  bank  reclined 
At  some  oak's  root  with  ivy  thick  entwined, 
Won  by  his  hospitable  friend's  desire, 
He  soothed  his  pains  of  exile  with  the  lyre. 
Then  shook  the  hills,  then  trembled  Peneus'  shore, 
Nor  (Eta  felt  his  load  of  forest  more  ; 
The  upland  elms  descended  to  the  plain, 
And  softened  lynxes  wondered  at  that  strain. 

Well  may  we  think,  O  dear  to  all  above  ! 
Thy  hir  h  distinguished  by  the  smile  of  Jove, 
And  that  Apollo  shed  his  kindliest  power, 
And  Maia's  son,§  on  that  propitious  hour, 
Since  only  minds  so  born  can  comprehend 
A  poet's  worth,  or  yield  that  worth  a  friend. 
Hence  on  thy  yet  urifaded  cheek  appears 
The  lingering  freshness  of  thy  greener  years  j 
Hence  in  thy  front  and  features  we  admire 
Nature  un  withered  and  a  mind  entire. 
Oh  !  might  so  true  a  friend  to  me  belong, 
So  skilled  to  grace  the  votaries  of  song, 
Should  I  recall  hereafter  into  rhyme 
The  kings  and  heroes  of  my  native  clime, 

*  One  of  the  British  maidens  who  brought  offerings  to  Apollo. 

t  A  Druidical  prophetess. 

1  Admetus  was  king  of  Thessaly.    Apollo  was  for  a  year  his  shepherd. 

j  Hermes. 


586  TRANSLA  TIONS 


Arthur  the  chief,  who  even  now  prepares, 

In  subterraneous  being,  future  wars, 

With  all  his  martial  knights,  to  be  restored 

Each  to  his  seat  around  the  federal  board  ; 

And  oh  !  if  spirit  fail  me  not,  disperse 

Our  Saxon  plunderers  in  triumphant  verse  ! 

Then,  after  all,  when,  with  the  past  content, 

A  life  I  finish,  not  in  silence  spent ; 

Should  he,  kind  mourner,  o'er  my  deathbed  bend, 

I  shall  but  need  to  say — "  Be  yet  my  friend  1  ' 

He,  too,  perhaps,  shall  bid  the  marble  breathe 

To  honor  me,  and  with  the  graceful  wreath, 

Or  of  Parnassus  or  the  Paphiaii  isle, 

Shall  bind  my  brows — but  I  shall  rest  the  while. 

Then,  also,  if  the  fruits  of  faith  endure, 

And  virtue's  promised  recompense  be  sure, 

Borne  to  those  seats  to  which  the  blessed  aspire 

By  purity  of  soul  and  virtuous  fire, 

These  rites,  as  Fate  permits,  I  shall  survey 

With  eyes  illumined  by  celestial  day, 

And,  every  cloud  from  my  pure  spirit  driven, 

Joy  in  the  bright  beatitude  of  heaven  ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  ON  DAMON. 

THE  ARGUMENT. 

Thyrsis  and  Damon,  shepherds  and  neighbors,  had  always  pursued  the  same  studies, 
and  had,  from  their  earliest  days,  been  united  in  the  closest  friendship.  Thyrsis, 
while  travelling  for  improvement,  received  intelligence  of  the  death  of  Damon,  and 
after  a  time,  returning  and  finding  it  true,  deplores  himself,  and  his  solitary  condi- 
tion, in  this  poem. 

By  Damon  is  to  be  understood  Charles  Diodati,  connected  with  the  Italian  city  of 
Lucca  by  his  father's  side,  in  other  respects  an  Englishman  ;  a  youth  of  uncommon 
genius,  erudition,  and  virtue. 

YE  mymphs  of  Himera,*  (for  ye  have  shed 

Erewhile  for  Daphnis,  and  for  Hylas  dead, 

And  over  Bion's  long-lamented  bier, 

The  fruitless  meed  of  many  a  sacred  tear) 

Now  through  the  villas  laved  by  Thames  rehearse 

The  woes  of  Thyrsis  in  Sicilian  verse, 

What  sighs  he  heaved,  and  how  with  groans  profound 

He  made  the  woods  and  hollow  rocks  resound, 

Young  Damon  dead  ;  nor  even  ceased  to  pour 

His  lonely  sorrows  at  the  midnight  hour. 

*  In  Sicily. 


FROM  MIL  TON 'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  587 


The  green  wheat  twice  nodded  in  the  ear, 
And  golden  harvest  twice  enriched  the  year, 
Since  Damon's  lips  had  gasped  for  vital  air 
The  last,  last  time,  nor  Thyrsis  yet  was  there  ; 
For  he,  enamoured  of  the  muse,  remained 
In  Tuscan  Fiorenza  long  detained, 
But,  stored  at  length  with  all  he  wished  to  learn, 
For  his  flock's  sake  now  hasted  to  return ; 
And  when  the  shepherd  had  resumed  his  seat 
At  the  elm's  root,  within  his  old  retreat, 
Then  'twas  his  lot,  then,  all  his  loss  to  know, 
And  from  his  burthened  heart  he  vented  thus  his  woe : 

"  Go,*seek  your  home,  my  lambs;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Alas!  what  deities  shall  I  suppose 
In  heaven,  or  earth,  concerned  for  human  woes, 
Since,  oh  my  Damon  !   tlifir  severe  decree 
So  soon  condemns  me  to  regret  of  thee ! 
Depart'st  thou  thus,  thy  virtues  urirepaid 
With  fame  and  honor,  like  a  vulgar  shade! 
Let  him  forbid  it  whose  bright  rod  controls, 
And  separates  sordid  from  illustrious  souls; 
Drives  far  the  ral>l>l<\  and  to  thee  assign 
A  happier  lot  with  spirits  worthy  thine  1 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Whate'er  befall,  unless  by  cruel  chance 
The  wolf  first  give  me  a  forbidding. glance, 
Thou  shalt  not  moulder  undeplored,  but  long 
Thy  praise  shall  dwell  on  every  shepherd's  tongue. 
To  Daphnis  lh>t  tlu-y  shall  delight  to  pay, 
And,  after  him,  to  thee,  the  votive  lay, 
While  Pales  shall  the  flocks  and  pastures  love 
Or  Faun  us  to  frequent  the  field  or  grove  ; 
At  least,  in  ancient  piety  and  truth, 
With  all  the  learned  labors  of  thy  youth, 
May  serve  thee  aught,  or  to  have  left  behind 
A  sorrowing  friend,  and  of  the  tuneful  kind. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you, 
Yes,  Damon  !  such  thy  sure  reward  shall  be  ; 
But  ah,  what  doom  awaits  unhappy  me? 
Who,  now,  my  pains  and  perils  shall  divide, 
As  thou  wast  wont,  for  ever  at  my  side, 
Both  when  the  rugged  frost  annoyed  our  feet, 
And  when  the  herbage  all'was  parched  with  heat ; 


588  TRANSLATIONS. 


Whether  the  grim  wolf's  ravage  to  prevent, 
Or  the  huge  lion's,  armed  with  darts  we  went  ? 
Whose  converse  now  shall  calm  my  stormy  day, 
With  charming  song  who  now  beguile  my  way  ? 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
In  whom  shall  I  confide  ?  Whose  counsel  find 
A  balmy  medicine  for  my  troubled  mind  ? 
Or  whose  discourse  with  innocent  delight 
Shall  fill  me  now,  and  cheat  the  wintry  night, 
While  hisses  on  my  hearth  the  pulpy  pear, 
And  blackening  chestnuts  start  and  crackle  there, 
While  storms  abroad  the  dreary  meadows  whelm, 
And  the  wind  thunders  through  the  neighboring  elm. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  iue 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Or  who,  when  summer  suns  their  summit  reach, 
And  Pan  sleeps  hidden  by  the  sheltering  beech, 
When  shepherds  disappear,  nymphs  seek  the  sedge, 
And  the  stretched  rustic  snores  beneath  the  hedge, 
Who  then  shall  render  me  thy  pleasant  vein 
Of  Attic  wit,  thy  jests,  thy  smiles,  again  ? 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  \  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Where  glens  and  vales  are  thickest  overgrown 
With  tangled  boughs,  I  wander  now  alone, 
Till  night  descend,  while  blustering  wind  and  shower 
Beats  on  my  temples  through  the  shattered  bower. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
Alas !  what  rampant  weeds  now  shame  my  fields, 
And  what  a  mildewed  crop  the  furrow  yields  ; 
My  rambling  vines,  unweddod  to  the  trees, 
Bear  shrivelled  grapes  ;  my  myrtles  fail  to  please ; 
Nor  please  me  more  my  flocks  ;  they,  slighted,  turn 
Their  unavailing  looks  on  me,  and  mourn. 

"  Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;  my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  you. 
JEgon  invites  me  to  the  hazel  grove, 
Amyntas,  on  the  river's  bank  to  rove, 
And  young  Alphesibceus  to  a  seat 
Where  branching  elms  exclude  the  midday  heat, 
*  Here  fountains  spring — here  mossy  hillocks  rise, 
Here  zephyr  whispers,  and  the  stream  replies.' — 
Thus  each  persuades,  but,  ^leaf  to  every  call, 
I  gain  the  thickets,  and  escape  them  all. 


FROM  MIL  TOWS  LA  TIN  POEMS.  589 


"Go,  seek  your  home,  my  lambs  ;   my  thoughts  are  due 
To  other  cares  than  those  of  feeding  YOU. 
Then  Mop-us  said,  the  same  who  reads  so  well 
The  voice  of  bird<.  and  what  the  stars  foretell, 
For  he  by  chance  had  noticed  my  return) 
'  What  meaii<  thy  sullen  mood,  this  deep  concern  ? 
Ah,  Thyr-i-  !   thou  art  either  rra/ed  with  love, 
Or  some  sinister  influence  from  above  ; 
Dull  Saturn's  influence  oft  the  shepherds  rue  ; 
His  laden  shaft  oblique  has  pierced  thee  through.' 

**  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastured  as  ye  are, 
My  thought  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
The  nymphs  ama/ed,  my  melancholy  s. 
And,  '  Thyr-l-  !      cry      '  what  will  })econ:e  of  thee  ? 
What  wouldst  thou,  Thyr-         -uch  should  not  appear 
The  brow  of  youth,  -tern,  gloomy,  and  severe  ; 
Brisk  youth  should  laugh  and  love     ah,  shun  the  fate 
Of  those,  twice  wretched  mopes!   who  lives  too  late  !' 

"  Go,  go.  my  lamb-,  unpast  un-d  a-  \  e  are; 
My  thought-  an-  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
jEgle  with  ilyas  came,  to  soothe  my  pain, 
And  Baucis'  daughter,  Dryope  the  vain, 
Fair  Dryope,  for  voice  and  figure  neat 
Known  far  and  near,  and  f^r  her  self-conceit ; 
rhloris  too  came,  whose  cottage  on  the  lands 
That  skirt  the  Idumanian  current  stands; 
But  all  in  vain  they  ••  .me,  and  but  to  see 
Kind  word-,  and  comfortable,  I..M  (,M  me. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs.  unpa-tu;ed  as  ye  are; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Ah  ble-t  indifference  of  the  playful  herd, 
None  by  his  fellow  chosen,  or  preferred! 
No  bonds  of  amity  The  Hocks  enthral, 
But  each  associates,  and  is  pleased  with  all: 
So  graze  the  dappled  deer  in  numerous  droves, 
And  all  his  kind  alike  the  zebra  loves; 
The  same  law  governs  where  the  billows  roar, 
And  Proteus'  shoals  o'erspread  the  desert  shore ; 
The  sparrow,  meanest  of  the  feathered  race, 
His  fit  companion  finds  in  every  place, 
With  whom  he  picks  the  grain  that  suits  him  best, 
Flirts  here  and  there,  and  late  returns  to  rest, 
And  whom,  if  chance  the  falcon  make  his  prey, 
Or  hedger  with  his  well-aimed  arrow  slay, 
For  no  such  loss  the  gay  survivor  grieves, 
New  love  he  seeks,  and  new  delight  receives. 


59°  TRANSLATIONS 


We  only,  an  obdurate  kind,  rejoice, 

Scorning  all  others,  in  a  single  choice. 

We  scarce  in  thousands  meet  one  kindred  mind, 

And  if  the  long-sought  good  at  last  we  find, 

When  least  we  fear  it,  Death  our  treasure  steals, 

And  gives  our  heart  a  wound  that  nothing  heals. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  unpastured  as  ye  are; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care, 
Ah,  what  delusions  lured  me  from  my  flocks, 
To  traverse  Alpine  snows  and  rugged  rocks  I 
What  need  so  great  had  I  to  visit  Rome, 
Now  sunk  in  ruins,  and  herself  a  tomb  ? 
Or,  had  she  flourished  still,  as  when,  of  old, 
For  her  sake  Tityrus  forsook  his  fold, 
What  need  so  great  had  I  to  incur  a  pause 
Of  thy  sweet  intercourse  for  such  a  cause, 
For  such  a  cause  to  place  the  roaring  sea, 
Rocks,  mountains,  woods,  between  my  friend  and  me  ? 
Else,  had  I  grasped  thy  feeble  hand,  composed 
Thy  decent  limbs,  thy  drooping  eyelids  closed, 
Arid,  at  the  last,  had  said—'  Farewell — ascend — 
Nor  even  in  the  skies  forget  thy  friend  ! ' 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untended  homeward  fare  ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Although  well  pleased,  ye  tuneful  Tuscan  swains  t 
My  mind  the  memory  of  your  worth  retains, 
Yet  not  your  worth  can  teach  me  less  to  mourn 
My  Damon  lost. — He  too  was  Tuscan  born, 
Born  in  your  Lucca,  city  of  renown  ! 
And  wit  possessed,  and  genius,  like  your  own. 
Oh  how  elate  was  I,  when  stretched  beside 
The  murmuring  course  of  Arno's  breezy  tide, 
Beneath  the  poplar  grove  I  passed  my  hours, 
Now  cropping  myrtles,  and  now  vernal  flowers, 
And  hearing,  as  I  lay  at  ease  along, 
Your  swains  contending  for  the  prize  of  song ! 
I  also  dared  attempt  (and,  as  it  seems, 
Not  much  displeased  attempting)  various  themes, 
For  even  I  can  presents  boast  form  you, 
The  shepherd's  pipe,  and  osier  basket  too, 
And  Dati,  and  Francini,  both  have  made 
My  name  familiar  to  the  beechen  shade, 
And  they  are  learned,  and  each  in  every  place 
Renowned  for  song,  and  both  of  Lydian  race. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untended  homeward  fare ; 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 


FROM  MIL  TON 'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  5  9 1 


While  bright  the  dewy  grass  with  moonbeams  shone, 
And  I  stood  hurdling  in  my  kids  alone, 
How  often  have  I  said  (but  thou  hadst  found 
Ere  then  thy  dark  cold  lodgment  underground) 
Now  Damon  sings,  or  springes  sets  for  hares, 
Or  wickerwork  for  various  use  prepares  ! 
How  oft,  indulging  fancy,  have  I  planned 
New  scenes  of  pleasure  that  I  hoped  at  hand, 
Called  thee  abroad  as  I  was  wont,  and  cried — 
'  What,  hoa  !  my  friend — come,  lay  thy  task  aside* 
Haste,  let  us  forth  together,  and  beguile 
The  heat  beneath  yon  whispering  shades  awhile, 
Or  on  the  margin  stray  of  Colrie's  clear  flood, 
Or  where  Cassibelan's  *  gray  turrets  stood ! 
There  thou  shalt  cull  me  simples,  and  shalt  teach 
Thy  friend  the  name  and  healing  powers  of  each, 
Prom  the  tall  bluebell  to  the  dwarfish  weed, 
What  the  dry  land,  and  what  the  marshes  breed, 
For  all  their  kinds  alike  to  theo  are  known, 
And  the  whole  art  <>t'  (ialen  is  thy  own.' 
Ah,  perish  Galen's  art,  and  withered  be 
The  useless  herbs  that  gave  not  health  to  thee  I 
Twelve  evenings  since,  as  in  poetic  dream 
I  meditating  sat  some  statelier  theme, 
The  reeds  no  sooner  touched  my  lip,  though  new, 
Arid  unessayed  before,  than  wide  they  flew, 
Bursting  their  waxen  bands,  nor  could  sustain 
The  deep-toned  music  of  the  solemn  strain  ; 
And  I  am  vain  perhaps,  but  I  will  tell 
How  proud  a  theme  I  chose — ye  groves,  farewell  I 
"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  nn tended  homeward  fare  \ 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  care. 
Of  Brutus,  Dardan  chief,  my  song  shall  be, 
How  with  his  barks  he  ploughed  the  British  sea, 
First  from  Rutupia's  towering  headland  seen, 
And  of  his  consort's  reign,  fair  Imogen  ; 
Of  Brennus  and  Belinus,  brothers  bold, 
And  of  Arviragus,  and  how  of  old 
Our  hardy  sires  the  Armorican  controlled  ; 
And  of  the  wife  of  Gorlois,t  who,  surprised 
By  Uther,  in  her  husband's  form  disguised, 
Such  was  the  force  of  Merlin's  art)  became 
Pregnant  with  Arthur  of  heroic  fame, 
These  themes  I  now  revolve — and  oh  !  if  Fat* 

*  St.  Albani.  t  logernc. 


592  TRANS  LA  TIONS 


Proportion  to  these  themes  my  lengthened  date, 
Adieu  my  shepherd's  reed — yon  pine  tree  bough 
Shall  be  thy  future  home,  there  dangle  thou 
Forgotten  and  disused,  unless  ere  long 
Thou  change  thy  Latian  for  a  British  song : 
A  British  ?  —even  so  —the  powers  of  man 
Are  bounded  ;  little  is  the  most  he  can  ; 
And  it  shall  well  suffice  me,  and  shall  be 
Fame  and  proud  recompense  enough  for  me, 
If  Usa,*  golden-haired,  my  verse  may  learn, 
If  Alain  bending  o'er  his  crystal  urn, 
Swift-whirling  Abra,  Trent's  o'ershadowed  stream* 
Thames,  lovelier  far  than  all  in  my  esteem, 
Tamar's  ore-tinctured  flood,  and,  after  these, 
The  wave-worn  shores  of  utmost  Orcades. 

"  Go,  go,  my  lambs,  untended  homeward  fare! 
My  thoughts  are  all  now  due  to  other  car 
All  this  I  kept  in  leaves  of  laurel  rind 
Enfolded  safe,  and  for  thy  view  designed, 
This — and  a  gift  from  Manso's  hand  beside, 
(Mariso,  not  least  his  native  city's  pride) 
Two  cups  that  radiant  as  their  giver  shown, 
Adorned  by  sculpture  with  a  double  zone. 
The  spring  was  graven  there  ;  here  slowly  wind 
The  Red  Sea  shores  with  groves  of  spices  lined  ; 
Her  plumes  of  various  hues  amid  the  boughs 
The  sacred,  solitary  phoenix  shows, 
And,  watchful  of  the  dawn,  reverts  her  head 
To  see  Aurora  leave  her  watery  bed. 
— In  other  part,  the  expansive  vault  above, 
And  there  too,  even  there,  the  god  of  love ; 
With  quiver  armed  he  mounts,  his  torch  displays 
A  vivid  light,  his  gem-tipped  arrows  blaze, 
Around  his  bright  and  fiery  eyes  he  rolls, 
Nor  aims  at  vulgar  minds  or  little  souls, 
Nor  deigns  one  lock  below,  but,  aiming  high, 
Sends  every  arrow  to  the  lofty  sky  ; 
Hence  forms  divine,  and  minds  immortal,  learn 
The  power  of  Cupid,  and  enamoured  burn. 

"  Thou  also  Damon  (neither  need  I  fear 
That  hope  delusive),  thou  art  also  there  ; 
For  whither  should  simplicity  like  thine 
Retire  ?  where  else  such  spotless  virtue  shine  ? 
Thou  dwell'st  not  (thought  profane)  in  shades  below, 
Nor  tears  suit  thee — cease  then,  my  tears,  to  flow. 

*  The  Ouse.      The  Alain  is  the  Alne.     The  Abra,  the  Humber. 


FROM  MIL  TON 'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  593 


Away  with  grief  :  on  Damon  ill  bestowed  ! 
Who,  pure  himself,  has  found  a  pure  abode, 
Has  passed  the  showery  arch,  henceforth  resides 
With  saints  and  heroes,  and  from  flowing  tides 
Quaffs  copious  immortality  and  joy 
With  hallowed  lips  !  —Oh  !  blest  without  alloy, 
And  now  enriched  with  all  that  faith  can  claim, 
Look  down,  entreated  by  whatever  name. 
If  Damon  please  thee  most  (that  rural  soui. 
Shall  oft  with  echoes  fill  the  groves  around) 
Or  if  Deodatus,  by  which  alone 
In  those  ethereal  mansions  thou  art  known. 
Thy  blush  was  maiden,  and  thy  youth  the  taste 
Of  wedded  bliss  knew  never,  pure  and  chaste. 
The  honors,  therefore,  by  divine  decree 
The  lot  of  virgin  worth,  are  given  to  thee: 
Thy  brows  encircled  with  a  radiant  band, 
And  the  green  palm  branch  waving  in  thy  hand, 
Thou  in  immortal  nuptials  shall  rejoice, 
And  join  with  seraphs  thy  according  voice, 
Where  rapture  reigns,  and  the  ecstatic  lyre 
Guides  the  blest  orgies  of  the  blazing  quire." 


AN  ODE  ADDRESSED  TO  MR.  JOHN  ROUS. 

LIBRARIAN  OF  THE   UNIVERSITY   OF  OXFORD, 

ON  A  LOST  VOLUME  OF  MY   POEMS,   WHICH   HE  DESIRKD 

ME   TO   REPLACE,    THAT    HE   MIGHT    ADD   THKM 

TO   MY   OTHER   WORKS   DEPOSITED 

IN   THE    LIBRARY. 

This  ode  ie  rendered  without  rhyme,  that  it  might  more  adequately  represent  the 
original,  which,  as  Milton  himself  informs  us,  is  of  no  certain  measure.  It  may  pos 
Bibly  for  this  reason  disappoint  the  rea<ler,  though  it  cost  the  writer  more  labor  than 
the  translation  of  any  piece  in  the  whole  collection.— C. 

STROPHE, 

MY  twofold  book  !  single  in  show, 

But  double  in  contents, 
Neat,  but  not  furiously  adorned, 

Which,  in  his  early  youth, 
A  poet  gave,  no  lofty  one  in  truth. 
Although  an  earnest  wooer  of  the  Muse-  - 
Say  while  in  cool  Ausonian  shades 


594  TRANSLA  TIONS 


Or  British  wilds  he  roamed, 
Striking  by  turns  his  native  lyre, 
By  turns  the  Daunian  *  lute, 
And  stepped  almost  in  air — 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Say,  little  book,  what  furtive  hand 
Thee  from  thy  fellow  books  conveyed, 
What  time,  at  the  repeated  suit 
Of  my  most  learned  friend, 
I  sent  thee  forth,  an  honored  traveller, 
From  our  great  city  to  the  source  of  Thames, 

Cerulean  sire  ! 
Where  rise  the  fountains,  and  the  raptures  ring, 

Of  the  Aoriian  choir, 
Durable  as  yonder  spheres, 
And  through  the  endless  lapse  of  years 
Secure  to  be  admired  ? 

STROPHE  II. 

Now  what  god,  or  demigod, 
For  Britain's  ancient  genius  moved, 

(If  our  afflicted  land 
Have  expiated  at  length  the  guilty  sloth 

Of  her  degenerate  sons) 
Shall  terminate  our  impious  feuds, 
And  discipline  with  hallowed  voice  recall  ? 
Recall  the  Muses  too, 
Driven  from  their  ancient  seats 
In  Albion,  and  well  nigh  from  Albion's  shore, 
And  with  keen  Phcebean  shafts 
Piercing  the  unseemly  birds, 

Whose  talons  menace  us, 
Shall  drive  the  harpy  race  from  Helicon  afar  ? 

ANT1STROPHE. 

But  thou,  my  book,  though  thou  hast  strayed, 

Whether  by  treachery  lost, 
Or  indolent  neglect,  thy  bearer's  fault, 

From  all  thy  kindred  books, 
To  some  dark  cell  or  cave  forlorn, 

Where  thou  eiidurest,  perhaps, 
The  chaffing  of  some  hard,  untutored  hand, 

Be  comforted — 

*  Italian. 


FROM  MIL  TON'S  LA  TIN  POEMS.  595 

For  lo  !  again  the  splendid  hope  appears 

That  thou  niayest  yet  escape 
The  gulfs  of  Lethe,  arid  on  oary  wings 
Mount  to  the  everlasting  courts  of  Jove  ! 

STROPHE   III. 

Since  Rous  desires  thee,  and  complains 
That,  though  by  promise  his, 
Thou  yet  appear'st  not  in  thy  place 
Among  the  literary  noble  stores 

Given  to  his  care, 

But,  absent,  leav'st  his  numbers  incomplete. 
He,  therefore,  guardian  vigilant 
Of  that  unperishing  wealth, 
Calls  thee  to  the  interior  shrine,  his  charge 
Where  he  intends  a  richer  treasure  far 
Than  Ion  kept  (Ion,*  Erectheus'  son, 
Illustrious,  of  the  fair  Creusa  born) 
In  the  resplendent  temple  of  his  god, 
Tripods  of  gold,  and  Delphic  gifts  divine. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Haste,  then,  to  the  pleasant  groves, 

The  Muse's  favorite  haunt ; 
Resume  thy  station  in  Apollo's  dome, 

Dearer  to  him 
Than  Delos,  or  the  forked  Parnassian  hill  I 

Exulting  go, 

Since  now  a  splendid  lot  is  also  thine, 
And  thou  art  sought  by  my  propitious  friend. 
For  there  thou  shalt  be  mul 
With  authors  of  exalted  note, 
The  ancient  glorious  lights  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

EPODE. 

Ye,  then,  my  works,  no  longer  vain 

And  worthless  deemed  by  me  ! 
Whate'er  this  sterile  genius  has  produced, 
Expect,  at  last,  the  rage  of  envy  spent, 

An  unmolested  happy  home, 
Gift  of  kind  Hermes,  and  my  watchful  friend, 
Where  never  flippant  tongue  profane 

Shall  entrance  find, 

And  whence  the  coarse  unlettered  multitude 
Shall  babble  far  remote. 


*  Ion  kept  th«  treasures  in  the  Temple  of  Delphi. 


596  TRANSLA  T1ONS 


Perhaps  some  future  distant  age, 
Less  tinged  with  prejudice,  and  better  taught, 
Shall  furnish  minds  of  power 
To  judge  more  equally. 
Then,  Malice  silenced  in  the  tomb, 
Cooler  heads  and  sounder  hearts, 
Thanks  to  Rous,  if  aught  of  praise 
I  merit,  shall  with  candor  weigh  the  claim. 


TRANSLATIONS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  POEMS, 


SONNET. 

FAIR  Lady !  whose  harmonious  name  the  Rhine,* 
Through  all  his  grassy  vale,  delights  to  hear, 
Base  were  indeed  the  wretch  who  could  forbear 

To  love  a  spirit  elegant  as  thine, 

That  manifests  a  sweetness  all  divine, 

Nor  knows  a  thousand  winning  acts  to  spare, 
And  graces,  which  Love's  bow  and  arrows  are, 

Tempering  thy  virtues  to  a  softer  shine. 

When  gracefully  thou  speak'st,  or  sirigest  gay, 
Such  strains  as  might  the  senseless  forest  move, 

Ah  then — turn  each  his  eyes  and  ears  away, 
Who  feels  himself  unworthy  cf  thy  love  ! 

Grace  can  alone  preserve  him  ere  the  dart 

Of  fond  desire  yet  reach  his  inmost  heart. 

* 

SONNET. 

As  on  a  hill-top  rude,  when  closing  day 

Imbrowns  the  scene,  some  pastoral  maiden  fair 
Waters  a  lovely  foreign  plant  with  care, 
Borne  from  its  native  genial  airs  away, 
That  scarcely  can  its  tender  bud  display, 

So,  on  my  tongue  these  accents,  new  and  rare, 
Are  flowers  exotic,  which  Love  waters  there. 


*In  the  original  "Kheno."    Perhaps  the  Reno,  Massou  thinks,  which  flows  near 
Bologna. 


OF  THE  ITALIAN1  POEMS.  59? 

While  thus,  O  sweetly  scornful !  I  essay 
Thy  praise  in  verse  to  British  ears  unknown, 
And  Thames  exchange  for  Arno's  fair  domain  ; 
So  Love  has  willed,  and  ofttimes  Love  has  shown 
That  what  he  wills,  he  never  wills  in  vain. 
Oh  that  this  hard  and  sterile  breast  might  be 
To  Him,  who  plants  from  Heaven,  a  soil  as  free. 


CANZONE. 

THEY  mock  my  toil — the  nymphs  and  amorous  swains- 

"  And  whence  this  fond  attempt  to  write,"  they  cry, 

"  Love-songs  in  language  that  thou  little  know'st? 

How  dar'st  thou  risk  to  sing  these  foreign  strains  ? 

Say  truly.     Find'st  not  oft  thy  purpose  crossed, 

And  that  thy  fairest  flowers  here  fade  and  die  ?  " 

Then,  with  pretence  of  admiral  ion  high- 

"  Thee  other  shores  expect,  and  other  tides, 

Rivers,  on  whose  grassy  sin 

Her  deathless  laurel  leaf,  with  which  to  bind 

Thy  flowing  locks,  already  Fame  provides  ; 

Why  then  this  burthen,  better  far  declined?" 

Speak,  Muse  !  for  me — the  fair  one  said,  who  guides 

My  willing  heart,  and  all  my  fancy's  flights, 

"This  is  the  language  in  which  Love  delights." 


SONNET,  TO  CHARLES    DIODATI. 

CHARLES — and  I  say  it  wondering — thou  must  know 

That  I,  who  once  assumed  a  scornful  air 

And  scoffed  at  Love,  am  fallen  in  his  snare, 

(Full  many  an  upright  man  has  fallen  so  :) 

Yet  think  me  not  thus  dazzled  by  the  flow 

Of  golden  locks,  or  damask  cheek  ;  more  rare 

The  heartfelt  beauties  of  my  foreign  fair  ; 

A  mien  majestic,  with  dark  brows  that  show 

The  tranquil  lustre  of  a  lofty  mind  ; 

Words  exquisite,  of  idioms  more  than  one. 

And  song,  whose  fascinating  power  might  bind, 

And  from  her  sphere  draw  down,  the  laboring  moon 

With  such  fire-darting  eyes  that,  should  I  fill 

My  ears  with  wax,  she  would  enchant  ine  still. 


598  TRANSLA  TIONS 


SONNET. 

LADY  !    It  cannot  be  but  that  thine  eyes 
Must  be  my  sun,  such  radiance  they  display, 
And  strike  me  even  as  Phoebus  him  whose  way 
Through  horrid  Libya's  sandy  desert  lies. 
Meantime,  on  that  side  steamy  vapors  rise 
Where  most  I  suffer.     Of  what  kind  are  they, 
New  as  to  me  they  are,  I  cannot  say, 
But  deem  them,  in  the  lover's  language — sighs. 
Some,  though  with  pain,  my  bosom  close  conceals, 
Which,  if  in  part  escaping  thence,  they  tend 
To  soften  thine,  thy  coldness  soon  congeals. 
While  others  to  my  tearful  eyes  ascend, 
Whence  my  sad  nights  in  showers  are  ever  drowned, 
Till  my  Aurora  comes,  her  brow  with  roses  bound. 

SONNET. 

ENAMOURED,  artless,  young,  on  foreign  ground, 

Uncertain  whither  from  myself  to  fly ; 

To  thee,  dear  lady,  with  an  humble  sigh 
Let  me  devote  my  heart,  which  I  have  found 
By  certain  proofs,  not  few,  intrepid,  sound, 

Good,  and  addicted  to  conceptions  high  : 

When  tempests  shake  the  world,  and  fire  the  sky, 
It  rests  in  adamant  self-wrapt  around, 
As  safe  from  envy,  and  from  outrage  rude, 
From  hopes  and  fears  that  vulgar  minds  abuse, 
As  fond  of  genius,  and  fixed  fortitude, 
Of  the  resounding  lyre,  and  every  Muse. 
Weak  you  will  find  it  in  one  only  part, 
Now  pierced  by  Love's  immedicable  dart. 

TRANSLATION  OF  A  SIMILE  IN  PARADISE  LOST. 

"As  when,  from  mountain-tops,  the  dusky  clouds 
Ascending,"  &c.— Book  ii.  1.  488. 

QUALES  aerii  montis  de  vertice  nubes 

Cum  surgunt,  et  jam  Borese  tumida  ora  quierunt, 

Ccelum  hilares  abdit,  spissa  caligine,  vultus  : 

Turn  si  jucundo  tandem  sol  prodeat  ore, 

Et  croceo  montes  et  pascua  lumine  tingat, 

Gaudent  omnia,  aves  mulcent  concentibus  agros, 

Balatuque  ovium  colles  vallesque  resultant. 


FROM  VINCENT  BOURNE,  599 

TRANSLATION  OF  DRYDEN'S  EPIGRAM  ON  MILTON. 

(July,  1780.) 

TRES  tria,  sed  longe  distantia,  saecula  vates 
Ostentant  tribus  e  gen  ti  bus  eximios. 
Graecia  subliinem,  cum  majestate  disertum 

Roma  tulit,  felix  Anglia  utrique  parem. 
Partubus  ex  binis  Natura  exhausta,  coacta  est, 

Tertius  ut  fieret,  consociare  duos. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VINCENT   BOURNE.* 

THE  THRACIAN. 

THRACIAN  parents,  at  his  birth, 

Mourn  their  babe  with  many  a  tear, 

But  with  undissembled  mirth 
Place  him  breathless  on  his  bier. 

Greece  and  Rome  with  equal  scorn, 

"  O  the  savages  1 ' '  exclaim , 
"  Whether  th«jv  rejoice  or  mourn, 

Well  entitled  ;<•  the  name  ! ' 

But  the  cause  of  this  concern, 

And  this  pleasure,  would  they  trace, 

Even  they  might  somewhat  learn 
From  the  savages  of  Thrace. 

RECIPROCAL  KINDNESS   THE  PRIMARY  LAW 

OF    NATURE. 

ANDROCLES,  from  his  injured  lord,  in  dread 

Of  instant  death,  to  Libya's  desert  fled. 

Tired  with  his  toilsome  flight,  and  parched  with  heat. 

He  spied  at  length  a  cavern's  cool  retreat ; 

But  scarce  had  given  to  rest  his  weary  frame, 

When,  hugest  of  his  kind,  a  lion  came: 

*  Vincent  Bourne  was  usher  of  the  fifth  form  at  Westminster  when  Cowper  was  i> 
»t.    He  is  known  now  as  an  excellent  Latin  poet. 


6oo 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


He  roared  approaching :  but  the  savage  din 
To  plaintive  murmurs  changed — arrived  within, 
And  with  expressive  looks,  his  lifted  paw 
Presenting,  aid  implored  from  whom  he  saw. 
The  fugitive,  through  terror  at  a  stand, 
Dared  not  awhile  afford  his  trembling  hand  ; 
But  bolder  grown,  at  length  inherent  found 
A  pointed  thorn,  and  drew  it  from  the  wound. 
The  cure  was  wrought ;  he  wiped  the  sanious  blood, 
And  firm  and  free  from  pain  the  lion  stood. 
Again  he  seeks  the  wilds,  and  day  by  day 
Regales  his  inmate  with  the  parted  prey. 
Nor  he  disdains  the  dole,  though  unprepared, 
Spread  on  the  ground,  and  with  a  lion  shared. 
But  thus  to  live — still  lost — sequestered  still — 
Scarce  seemed  his  lord's  revenge  a  heavier  ill. 
Home  !  native  home  !  Oh  might  he  but  repair  1 
He  must — he  will,  though  death  attends  him  there. 
He  goes,  and  doomed  to  perish,  on  the  sands 
Of  the  full  theatre  unpitied  stands  : 
When  lo  !  the  selfsame  lion  from  his  cage 
Flies  to  devour  him,  famished  into  rage. 
He  flies,  but  viewing  in  his  purposed  prey 
The  man,  his  healer,  pauses  on  his  way, 
And,  softened  by  remembrance  into  sweet 
And  kind  composure,  crouches  at  his  feet, 

Mute  with  astonishment,  the  assembly  gaze  : 
But  why,  ye  Romans  ?    Whence  your  mute  amaze  ? 
All  this  is  natural :  Nature  bade  him  rend 
An  enemy  ;  she  bids  him  spare  a  friend. 


A  MANUAL, 


MORE   ANCIENT   THAN   THE    ART   OF    PRINTING,    AND   NOT   TO     BR 

FOUND   IN   ANY    CATALOGUE. 


THERE  is  a  book,  which  we  may 
call 

(Its  excellence  is  such) 
Alone  a  library,  though  small ; 

The  ladies  thumb  it  much, 

Words  none,  things  numerous  it 

contains :  [pared, 

And  things  with  words   com- 


Who  needs  be  told  that  has  his 

brains, 
Which  merits  most  regard  ? 

Ofttimes  its  leaves  of  scarlet  hue 
A  golden  edging  boast ; 

And  opened,  it  displays  to  view 
Twelve  pages  at  the  most. 


FROM  VINCENT  BOURNE. 


601 


Nor  name  nor  title,  stamped  be- 
hind, 

Adorns  its  outer  part ; 
But  all  within  'tis  richly  lined, 

A  magazine  of  art. 

The  whitest  hands  that    secret 

hoard 

Oft  visit :  and  the  fair 
Preserve    it     in     their     bosoms 

stored, 
As  with  a  miser's  care. 

Thenc<'  implements  of  every  size, 
And  formed  for  various  use, 

(They  need  but  to  consult  their 

eyes) 
They  readily  produce. 

The  largest  and  the  longest  kind 
I  ><  tsscss  the  foremost  page, 

A  sort  most  needed  by  the  blind, 
Or  nearly  such  from  age. 

The  full  charged  leaf,  which  next 

ensues, 

Presents  in  bright  array 
The  smaller  sort,  which  matrons 

use, 
Not  quite  so  blind  as  they. 

The  third,  the  fourth,  the  fifth 
supply 

What  their  occasions  ask, 
Who  with  a  more  discerning  eye 

Perform  a  nicer  task. 

But  still  with  regular  decrease 
From  size  to  size  they  fall, 

In  every  leaf  grow  less  and  less ; 
The  last  are  least  of  all. 

Oh  !  what  a  fund  of  genius,  pent 
In  narrow  space  is  here  ! 

This  volume's  method  and   in- 
tent 
How  luminous  and  clear. 

It  leaves  no  reader  at  a  loss 
Or  posed,  whoever  reads  : 


No  commentator's  tedious  gloss, 
Nor  even  index  needs. 

Search  Bodley's  many  thousand* 

o'er! 

No  book  is  treasured  there, 
Nor  yet  in  Granta's  numerous 

store, 
That  may  with  this  compare 

No  ! — rival  none  in  either  host 

Of  this  was  ever  seen, 
Or,   that  contents   could  justly 
boast, 

So  brilliant  and  so  keen. 


AN  ENIGMA. 

A  NEEDLE,  small  as  small  can 

be, 
In  bulk  and  use  surpasses  me, 

Nor  is  my  purchase  dear  ; 
For  little,  and  almost  for  nought, 
As  many  of  my  kind  are  bought 

As  days  are  in  the  year. 

Yet  though   but    little   use    we 

boast, 
And  are  procured  at  little  cost, 

The  labor  is  not  light ; 
Nor  few  artificers  it  asks, 
All  skilful  in  their  several  tasks, 

To  fashion  us  aright. 

One  fuses  metal  o'er  the  fire, 
A  second  draws  it  into  wire, 

The  shears  another  plies, 
Who  clips  in  length  the  brazer 

thread 
For    him    who,   chafing    every 

shred 
Gives  all  an  equal  size. 

A     fifth     prepares,    exact     and 

round, 
The  knob  with  which  it  must  be 

crowned ; 


602 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


His  follower  makes  it  fast : 
And  with  his  mallet  and  his  file 
To    shape    the    point,   employs 
awhile 

The  seventh  and  the  last. 

therefore,  (Edipus  !  declare 


What  creature,  wonderful,  and 
rare, 

A  process  that  obtains 
Its  purpose  with  so  much  ado 
At  last  produces  ! — tell  me  trua 

And  take  me  for  your  pains  1 


SPARROWS     SELF  -  DOMESTICATED     IN    TRINIT I 

COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 


NONE    ever    shared    the   social 

feast, 

Or  as  an  inmate  or  a  guest, 
Beneath  the  celebrated  dome 
Where   once  Sir  Isaac  had  his 

home, 
Who  saw  not  (and  with   some 

delight 
Perhaps  he  viewed    the    novel 

sight) 
How    numerous,   at  the    tables 

there, 
The    sparrows    beg  their    daily 

fare. 

For  there,  in  every  nook  and  cell 
Where  such  a  family  may  dwell, 
Sure  as  the  vernal  season  comes 
Their  nest  they  weave  in  hope  of 

crumbs, 
Which  kindly  given,  may  serve 

with  food 
Convenient    their    unfeathered 

brood  ; 


And  oft  as  with  its    summons 

clear 
The  warning  bell  salutes  their 

ear, 

Sagacious  listeners  to  the  sound, 
They  flock  from   all  the  fields 

around, 

To  reach  the  hospitable  hall, 
None  more  attentive  to  the  call. 
Arrived,  the  pensionary  band, 
Hopping  and  chirping,  close  at 

hand, 

Solicit  what  they  soon  receive, 
The  sprinkled,  plenteous  dona- 
tive, [large, 
Thus    is    a    multitude,   though 
Supported  at  a  trivial  charge : 
A  single  doit  would  overpay 
The  expenditure  of  every  day, 
And  who  can  grudge  so  small  a 

grace 
To  suppliants,   natives    of    the 

place  ? 


FAMILIARITY  DANGEROUS. 


As  in  her  ancient  mistress'  lap 
The  youthful  tabby  lay, 

They  gave  each  other  many  a 

tap, 
Alike  disposed  to  play. 


But  strife  ensues.      Puss  waxes 

warm, 

And  with  protruded  claws 
Ploughs  all  the  length  of  Lydia'a 

arm, 
Mere  wantonness  the  cause- 


I-KUM   I'lWCEXT  BL  VKNE. 


603 


At  once,  resentful  of  the  deed, 
She  shakes  her  to  the  ground 

With    many  a   threat    that  she 

shall  bleed 
VV  th  still  a  deeper  wound. 


But,  Lydia,  bid  thy  fury  rest : 
It  was  a  venial  stroke  ; 

For  she  that  will  with  kittens 

jest, 
Should  bear  a  kitten's  joke. 


INVITATION  TO  THE  REDBREAST. 


SWEET  bird,  whom  the  winter  constrains 

Arid  seldom  another  it  can — 
To  seek  a  retreat  while  he  reigns 

In  the  well  sheltered  dwellings  of  man, 
Who  never  can  seem  to  intrude, 

Though  in  all  places  equally  free, 
Come,  oft  as  the  season  is  rude, 

Thou  art  sure  to  be  welcome  to  me. 

At  sight  of  the  first  feeble  ray 

That  pierces  the  clouds  of  the  east, 
To  inveigle  thee  every  day 

My  windows  shall  show  thee  a  feast ; 
For,  taught  by  experience,  I  know 

Thee  mindful  of  benefit  long, 
And  that,  thankful  for  all  I  bestow, 

Thou  wilt  pay  me  with  many  a  song. 

Then,  soon  as  the  swell  of  the  buds 
Bespeaks  the  renewal  of  spring, 

Fly  hence,  if  thou  wilt,  to  the  woods, 
Or  where  it  shall  please  thee  to  sing : 

And  shouldst  thou,  compelled  by  a  frost, 
Come  again  to  my  window  or  door, 

Doubt  not  an  affectionate  host, 

Only  pay  as  thou  paidst  me  before. 

Thus  music  must  needs  be  confessed 

To  flow  from  a  fountain  above ; 
Else  how  should  it  work  in  the  breast 

Unchangeable  friendship  and  love  ? 
And  who  on  the  globe  can  be  found, 

Save  your  generation  and  ours, 
That  can  be  delighted  by  sound, 

Or  boasts  any  musical  powers? 


604 


TRANSLATIONS 


STRADA'S  NIGHTINGALE. 

THE  shepherd  touched  his  reed ;  sweet  Philome1 
Essayed,  and  oft  essayed  to  catch  the  strain, 

And  treasuring,  as  on  her  ear  they  fell, 
The  numbers,  echoed  note  for  note  again. 

The  peevish  youth,  who  ne'er  had  found  before 
A  rival  of  his  skill,  indignant  heard 

And  soon  (for  various  was  his  tuneful  store), 
In  loftier  tones  defied  the  simple  bird. 

She  dared  the  task,  and,  rising  as  he  rose, 
With  all  the  force  that  passion  gives  inspired, 

Returned  the  sounds  awhile,  but  in  the  close, 
Exhausted  fell,  and  at  his  feet  expired. 

Thus  strength,  not  skill  prevailed.     O  fatal  strife, 
By  thee,  poor  songstress,  playfully  begun  ; 

And,  O  sad  victory,  which  cost  thy  life, 
And  he  may  wish  that  he  had  never  won  I 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LADY, 

WHO   LIVED   ONE   HUNDRED   TEARS,  AND   DIED   ON   HER 

3IRTHDAY,    1728. 


ANCIENT  dame,  how  wide  and 
vast 

To  a  race  like  ours  appears, 
Rounded  to  an  orb  at  last, 

All  thy  multitude  of  years ! 

We,  the  herd  of  human  kind, 
Frailer  and  of  feebler  powers ; 

We,  to  narrow  bounds  confined, 
Soon  exhaust  the  sum  of  ours. 

Death's  delicious  banquet — we 
Perish  even  from  the  womb, 

Swifter  than  a  shadow  flee, 
Nourished    but    to    feed    the 
tomb. 

Seeds  of  merciless  disease 
Lurk  in  all  that  we  enjoy  ; 


Some  that  waste  us  by  degrees, 
Some  that  suddenly  destroy. 

And,  if  life  o'erleap  the  bourn 
Common  to  the  sons  of  men, 
What    remains,    but     that     w« 

mourn, 

Dream,  and  dote,  and  drive] 
then  ? 

Fast    as   moons    can   wax   and 

wane 
Sorrow  comes  •  and  while  we 

groan, 

Pant    with    anguish,  and   com- 
plain, 

Half   our  years  are   fled  and 
gone. 


FROM  VINCENT  BOURNE. 


605 


If  a  few  (to  few  'tis  given), 

Lingering     on     this     earthly 
stage, 

Creep  and  halt  with  steps  uneven 
To  the  period  of  an  age, 

Wherefore  live  they,  but  to  see 
Cunning,  arrogance,  and  force, 

Bights  lamented  much  by  thee, 
Holding      their      accustomed 
course  ? 


Oft  was  seen,  in  ages  past, 

All  that  we  with  wonder  view; 

Often  shall  be  to  the  last ; 
Earth  produces  nothing  new. 

Thee  we  congratulate,  content 
Should      propitious      Heaven 

design 

Life  for  us  as  calmly  spent, 
Though  but  half  the  length  of 
time. 


THE   CAUSE  WON, 


Two  neighbors  furiously  dis- 
pute ; 

A  field — the  subject  of  the  suit. 

Trivial  the  spot,  yet  such  the 
rage 

With  which  the  combatants  en- 
gage, 

'Twere  hard  to  tell  who  covets 
most 

The  prize at  whatsoever  cost. 

The  pleadings  swell.  Words  still 
suffice : 


No  single  word  but  has  its  price. 
No   term   but  yields   some    fair 

pretence 

For  novel  and  increased  expense 
Defendant    thus     becomes 

name, 
Which  he  that  bore  it  may  dis 

claim, 
Since   both,  in  one  description 

blended, 
Are  plaintiffs — when  the  suit  is 

ended. 


THE  SILKWORM. 


THE  beams  of  April,  ere  it  goes, 

A  worm,  scarce  visible,  disclose; 

All  winter  long  content  to  dwell 

The  tenant  of  his  native  shell. 

The  same  prolific  season  gives 

The  sustenance  by  which  he  lives. 

The  mulberry  leaf,  a  simple 
store, 

That  serves  him — till  he  needs 
no  more  ! 

For  his  dimensions  once  com- 
plete, 

Thenceforth  none  never  sees  him 
eat : 


Though  till  his  growing  time  be 

past 

Scarce  ever  is  he  seen  to  fast. 
That    hour    arrived,  his    work 

begins, 
He  spins  and  weaves,  and  weaves 

and  spins ; 

Till  circle  upon  circle  wound 
Careless  around  him  and  around, 
Conceals  him  with  a  veil,  though 

slight, 

Impervious  to  the  keenest  sigh't. 
Thus  self-enclosed  as  in  a  cask, 
At  length  he  finishes  his 


6o6 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


And,  though  a  worm  when   he 

was  lost, 

Or  caterpillar  at  the  most, 
When  next  we  see  him.  wings  he 

wears, 

And  in  papilio-pomp  appears ; 
Becomes  oviparous ;  supplies 
With  future  worms  and  future 

flies 


The    next    ensuing    year — and 

diesl 

Well  were  it  for  the  world,  if  all 
Who   creep   about  this  earthly 

ball, 
Though  shorter  lived  than  most 

he  be, 
Were  useful  in  their  kind  as  he, 


THE  INNOCENT  THIEF. 

NOT  a  flower  can  be  found  in  the  fields, 
Or  the  spot  that  we  till  for  our  pleasure, 

From  the  largest  to  least,  but  it  yields 
The  bee,  never  wearied,  a  treasure. 

Scarce  any  she  quits  unexplored 

With  a  diligence  truly  exact ; 
Yet,  steal  what  she  may  for  her  hoard, 

Leaves  evidence  none  of  the  fact. 

Her  lucrative  task  she  pursues, 
And  pilfers  with  so  much  address, 

That  none  of  their  odor  they  lose, 
Nor  charm  by  their  beauty  the  less. 

Not  thus  inoffensively  preys 
The  cankerworm,  indwelling  foe  I 

His  voracity  not  thus  allays 

The  sparrow,  the  finch,  or  the  crow. 

The  worm,  more  expensively  fed, 
The  pride  of  the  garden  devours  ; 

And  birds  peck  the  seed  from  the  bed, 
Still  less  to  be  spared  than  the  flowers. 

But  she,  with  such  delicate  skill, 

Her  pillage  so  fits  for  her  use, 
That  the  chemist  in  vain  with  his  still 

Would  labor  the  like  to  produce. 

Then  grudge  not  her  temperate  meals 
Nor  a  benefit  blame  as  a  theft ; 

Since,  stole  she  not  all  that  she  steals, 
Neither  honey  nor  wax  would  be  left. 


FROM  VINCENT  BOURNE. 


DENNER'S  OLD  WOMAN.* 

IN  this  mimic  form  of  a  matron  in  years, 

How  plainly  the  pencil  of  Denner  appears ! 

The  matron  herself,  in  whose  old  age  we  see 

Not  a  trace  of  decline,  what  a  wonder  is  she  ! 

No  dimness  of  eye,  and  no  cheek  hanging  low, 

No  wrinkle,  or  deep-furrowed  frown  on  the  brow  I 

Her  forehead  indeed  is  here  circled  around 

With  locks  like  the  riband  with  which  they  are  bound  ; 

While  glossy  and  smooth,  and  as  soft  as  the  skin 

Of  a  delicate  peach,  is  the  down  of  her  chin  ; 

But  nothing  unpleasant,  or  sad,  or  severe, 

Or  that  indicates  life  in  its  winter— is  here. 

Yet  all  is  expressed  with  fidelity  due, 

Nor  a  pimple  or  freckle  concealed  from  the  view. 

Many  fond  of  new  sights,  or  who  cherish  a  taste 
For  the  labors  of  art,  to  the  spectacle  haste. 
The  youths  all  agree,  that  could  old  age  inspire 
The  passion  of  love,  hers  would  kindle  the  fire, 
And  the  matrons  with  pleasure  confess  that  they  see 
Ridiculous  nothing  or  hideous  in  thee. 
The  nymphs  for  themselves  scarcely  hope  a  decline, 
O  wonderful  woman  !  as  placid  as  thine. 

Strange  magic  of  art  I  which  the  youth  can  engage 
To  peruse,  half  enamoured,  the  features  of  age  ; 
And  force  from  the  virgin  a  sigh  of  despair, 
That  she  when  as  old  shall  be  equally  fair  ! 
How  great  is  the  glory  that  Denner  has  gained, 
Since  Apelles  not  more  for  his  Venus  obtained. 

THE  TEARS  OF  A  PAINTER. 

APELLES,  hearing  that  his  boy 
Had  just  expired — his  only  joy  ! 
Although  the  sight  with  anguish  tore  him, 
Bade  place  his  dear  remains  before  him. 
He  seized  his  brush,  his  colors  spread  ; 
And — "  Oh  !  my  child,  accept,"  -he  said, 
"  ('Tis  all  that  I  can  now  bestow), 
This  tribute  of  a  father's  woe  ! ' 
Then,  faithful  to  the  twofold  part, 
Both  of  his  feelings  and  his  art, 

*  It  is  stated  in  a  note  to  the  editions  of  Bourne's  Poems,  that  Denner's  picture  wa§ 
exhibited  in  Old  Palace  STarti  near  Westminster  Abbey. 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


He  closed  his  eyes  with  tender  care, 
Arid  formed  at  once  a  fellow  pair. 
His  brow  with  amber  locks  beset, 
And  lips  he  drew  not  livid  yet ; 
And  shaded  all  that  he  had  done 
To  a  just  image  of  his  son. 
Thus  far  is  well.     But  view  again 
The  cause  of  thy  paternal  pain  ! 
Thy  melancholy  task  fulfil ! 
It  needs  the  last,  last  touches  still. 
Again  his  pencil's  powers  he  tries, 
For  on  his  lips  a  smile  he  spies  : 
And  still  his  cheek  unfaded  shows 
The  deepest  damask  of  the  rose. 
Then,  heedful  to  the  finished  whole, 
With  fondest  eagerness  he  stole, 
Till  scarce  himself  distinctly  knew 
The  cherub  copied  from  the  true. 

Now,  painter  cease  !  Thy  task  is  done. 
Long  lives  this  image  of  thy  son  ; 
Nor  short  lived  shall  the  glory  prove 
Or  of  thy  labor  or  thy  love. 

THE  MAZE. 

FROM  right  to  left,  and  to  and  fro, 

Caught  in  a  labyrinth  you  go, 

And  turn,  and  turn,  and  turn  again, 

To  solve  the  mystery,  but  in  vain ; 

Stand  still,  and  breathe,  and  take  from  me 

A  clue,  that  soon  shall  set  you  free  ! 

Not  Ariadne,  if  you  met  her, 

Herself  could  serve  you  with  a  better, 

JTou  entered  easily — find  where — 

And  make  with  ease  your  exit  there ! 


NO  SORROW  PECULIAR  TO  THE  SUFFERER 

THE  lover,  in  melodious  verses, 
His  singular  distress  rehearses. 
Still  closing  with  a  rueful  cry, 
?*  Was  ever  such  a  wretch  as  I !  " 
Yes  I  thousands  have  endured  before 
All  thy  distress !  some,  haply,  more. 


FROM  r IN  CENT  BOURNE.  6o<J 

Unnumbered  Corydons  complain, 
And  Strephons,  of  the  like  disdain  ; 
And  if  thy  Chloe  be  of  steel, 
Too  deaf  to  hear,  too  hard  to  feel ; 
Not  her  alone  that  censure  fits, 
Nor  thou  alone  has  lost  thy  wits. 


THE  SNAIL. 

To  grass,  or  leaf,  or  fruit,  or  wall, 
The  Snail  sticks  close,  nor  fears  to  fall, 
As  if  he  grew  there,  house  and  all 

Together. 

Within  that  house  secure  he  hides, 
When  danger  imminent  betides 
Of  storm,  or  other  harm  besides 

Of  weather. 

Give  but  his  horns  the  slightest  touch, 
His  self-collecting  power  is  such, 
He  shrinks  into  his  house  with  much 

Displeasure. 

Where'er  he  dwells,  he  dwells  alone, 
Except  himself  has  chattels  none, 
Well  satisfied  to  be  his  own 

Whole  treasure. 

Thus,  hermit-like,  his  life  he  leads, 
Nor  partner  of  his  banquet  needs, 
And  if  he  meets  one,  only  feeds 

The  faster. 

• 

Who  seeks  him  must  be  worse  than  blind, 
(He  and  his  house  are  so  combined) 
If,  finding  it,  he  fails  to  find 

Its  master. 

THE  CANTAB. 

WITH  two  spurs,  or  one,  and  no  great  matter  which, 
Boots  bought,  or  boots  borrowed,  a  whip  or  a  switch, 
Five  shillings  or  less  for  the  hire  of  his  beast, 
Paid  part  into  hand  ; — you  must  wait  for  the  rest. 
Thus  equipt,  Academicus  climbs  up  his  horse, 
And  out  they  both  sally  for  better  or  worse  j 


EPIGRAMS  TRANSLATED 


His  heart  void  of  fear,  and  as  light  as  a  feather  '3 
And  in  violent  haste  to  go  not  knowing  whither : 
Through  the  fields  and  the  towns  (see  !)  he  scampers  along, 
And  is  looked  at  and  laughed  at  by  old  and  by  young, 
Till  at  length  overspent,  and  his  sides  smeared  with  blood, 
Down  tumbles  his  horse,  man  and  all,  in  the  mud. 
In  a  wagon  or  chaise  shall  he  finish  his  route  ? 
Oh  !  scandalous  fate  !  he  must  do  it  on  foot. 

Young  gentlemen,  hear ! — I  am  older  than  you  ! 
The  advice  that  I  give  I  have  proved  to  be  true  : 
Wherever  your  journey  may  be,  never  doubt  it, 
The  faster  you  ride,  you're  the  longer  about  it. 


EPIGRAMS    TRANSLATED   FROM  THE   LATIN 

OF  OWEN.* 

ON  ONE  IGNORANT  AND  ARROGANT. 

THOU  mayst  of  double  ignorance  boast, 
Who  know'st  not  that  thou  nothing  know'st. 

PRUDENT  SIMPLICITY. 

THAT  thou  mayst  injure  no  man,  dovelike  be, 
And  serpentlike,  that  none  may  injure  thee  ! 

* 

TO  A  FRIEND  IN  DISTRESS. 

I  WISH  thy  lot,  now  bad,  still  worse,  my  friend  ; 
For  when  at  worst,  they  say,  things  always  mend. 

SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 

WHEN  little  more  than  boy  in  age, 
I  deemed  myself  almost  a  sage  : 
But  now  seem  worthier  to  be  styled, 
For  ignorance,  almost  a  child. 

•  John  Owen  was  a  well-known  Epigrammatist,  who  lived  in  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth 
and  James  1.    iioru  1560  j  died  1622. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  OWEN. 


RETALIATION. 

THE  works  of  ancient  bards  divine, 
Aulus,  thou  scorn'st  to  read  ; 

And  should  posterity  read  thine, 
It  would  be  strange  indeed  ! 

SUNSET  AND  SUNRISE. 

CONTEMPLATE,  when  the  sun  declines 
Thy  death  with  deep  reflection  ! 

And  when  again  he  rising  shines, 
Thy  day  of  resurrection  I 


ON  THE  SHORTNESS  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  DR.  JORTIN.* 

SUNS  that  set,  and  moons  that  wane, 
Rise  and  are  restored  again  ; 
Stars  that  orient  day  subdue-. 
Xight  at  her  return  rene\\> 
Herbs  arid  flowers,  the  beauteous  birth 
Of  the  genial  womb  of  earth. 
Suffer  but  a  transient  death 
From  the  winter's  cruel  breath. 
Zephyr  speaks  ;  serener  skies 
Warm  the  glebe,  and  they  arise. 
We,  alas  !  earth's  haughty  kings, 
We,  that  promise  mighty  things, 
Losing  soon  life's  happy  prime, 
Droop  and  fade  in  little  time. 
Spring  returns,  but  not  our  bloom  ; 
Still  'tis  winter  in  the  toinb. 


*  This  little  poem  was  sent  to  Newton  by  Cowper,  on  the  25th  of  January,  1784.    H 
prefaced  it  with  a  copy  of  the  original  by  Dr.  Jortin,  and  the  following  introduction  :— 

«'  The  late  Doctor  Jortin 
Had  the  good  fortune 
To  write  these  verses 
Upon  tombs  and  hearses, 
Which  I,  being  jinglish, 
Have  done  into  English." 


6l2  TRANSLATIONS 


TRANSLATIONS   FROM  THE   FRENCH   OF 
MADAME   DE   LA    MOTTE  GUYON  * 

THE  NATIVITY. 

'Tis  Folly  all — let  me  no  more  be  told 
Of  Parian  porticos,  and  roofs  of  gold  ; 
Delightful  views  of  Nature,  dressed  by  Art, 
Enchant  no  longer  this  indifferent  heart : 
The  Lord  of  all  things,  in  His  humble  birth, 
Makes  mean  the  proud  magnificence  of  earth ; 
The  straw,  the  manger,  and  the  mouldering  wall, 
Eclipse  its  lustre  ;  and  I  scorn  it  all. 

Canals,  and  fountains,  and  delicious  vales, 
Green  slopes,  and  plains  whose  plenty  never  fails  ; 
Deep-rooted  groves,  whose  heads  sublimely  rise, 
Earth-born,  and  yet  ambitious  of  the  skies  ; 
The  abundant  foliage  of  whose  gloomy  shades, 
Vainly  the  sun  in  all  its  power  invades, 
Where  warbled  airs  of  sprightly  birds  resound, 
Whose  verdure  lives  while  Winter  scowls  around  ; 
Rocks,  lofty  mountains,  caverns  dark  and  deep, 
And  torrents  raving  down  the  rugged  steep  ; 
Smooth  downs,  whose  fragrant  herbs  the  spirits  cheer : 
Meads  crowned  with  flowers  ;  streams  musical  and  clear, 
Whose  silver  waters,  and  whose  murmurs,  join 
Their  artless  charms,  to  make  the  scene  divine ; 
The  fruitful  vineyard,  and  the  furrowed  plain, 
That  seems  a  rolling  sea  of  golden  grain  ; 
All,  all  have  lost  the  charms  they  once  possessed : 
An  infant  Grod  reigns  sovereign  in  my  breast ; 
Prom  Bethlehem's  bosom  I  no  more  will  rove  ; 
There  dwells  the  Saviour,  and  there  rests  my  love. 

Ye  mightier  rivers,  that,  with  sounding  force, 
Urge  down  the  valleys  your  impetuous  course ! 
Winds,  clouds,  and  lightnings  !  and  ye  waves,  whose  heads, 
Curled  into  monstrous  forms,  the  seamen  dread  ! 
Horrid  abyss,  where  all  experience  fails, 
Spread  with  the  wreck  of  planks  and  shattered  sails  ; 

*  A  very  celebrated  French  lady.  She  preached  Quietism,  a  calm  devotion  resting 
on  the  love  of  God,  but  her  opinions  were  undoubtedly  fanatical  and  exaggerated.  She 
suffered  much  persecution  on  account  of  them,  and  was  imprisoned  in  the  Bastile  for 
four  years-  She  wrote  much  and  well.  Cowper's  friend,  Mr.  Bull,  brought  him  her 
poema  in  1782,  and  he  began  translating  them. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYO&.  613 


On  whose  broad  back  grim  Death  triumphant  rid°s, 
While  havoc  floats  on  all  thy  swelling  titles. 
Thy  shores  a  scene  of  ruin,  strewed  around 
With  vessels  bulged,  and  bodies  of  the  drowned  ! 

Ye  fish,  that  sport  beneath  the  boundless  waves, 
And  rest,  secure  from  man,  in  rocky  caves  ; 
Swift-darting  sharks,  and  whales  of  hideous  size, 
Whom  all  the  aquatic  world  with  terror  eyes  1 
Had  I  but  faith  immovable  and  true, 
I  might  defy  the  fiercest  storm,  like  you  : 
The  world,  a  more  disturbed  and  boisterous  sea, 
When  Jesus  shows  a  smile,  affrights  riot  me  ; 
He  hides  me,  and  in  vain  the  billows  roar, 
Break  harmless  at  my  feet,  and  leave  the  shore. 

Thou  azure  vault,  where,  through  the  gloom  of  night, 
Thick  sown  we  see  such  countless  worlds  of  light  1 
Thou  moon,  whose  car,  encompassing  the  skies, 
Restores  lost  nature  to  our  wondering  eyes  ; 
Again  retiring,  when  the  brighter  sun 
Begins  the  course  he  seems  in  haste  to  run  ! 
Behold  him  where  he  shines  1     His  rapid  rays, 
Themselves  unmeasured,  measure  all  our  days; 
Nothing  impedes  the  race  he  would  pursue, 
Nothing  escapes  his  penetrating  view, 
A  thousand  lands  confess  his  quickening  heat, 
And  all  he  cheers  are  fruitful,  fair,  and  <\veet. 

Far  from  enjoying  what  these  scenes  disclose, 
I  feel  the  thorn,  alas  I  but  miss  the  ros<  : 
Too  well  I  know  this  aching  heart  requii 
More  solid  good  to  till  its  vast  desir* 
In  vain  they  represent  His  matchless  might, 
Who  called  them  out  of  deep  primeval  night ; 
Their  form  and  beauty  but  augment  my  woe: 
I  seek  the  Giver  of  the. charms  they  sho\\  : 
Nor,  Him  beside,  throughout  the  world  He  made, 
Lives  there  in  whom  I  trust  for  cure  or  aid. 

Infinite  God,  thou  great  unrivalled  OXK  ! 
Whose  glory  makes  a  blot  of  yonder  sun  ; 
Compared  with  Thine,  how  dim  his  beauty  seems! 
How  quenched  the  radiance  of  his  golden  beams  1 
Thou  art  my  bliss,  the  light  by  which  I  move  ; 
In  Thee  alone  dwells  all  that  I  can  love  ; 
All  darkness  flies  when  Thou  art  pleased  to  appear, 
A  sudden  spring  renews  the  fading  year ; 
Where'er  I  turn,  I  see  Thy  power  and  grace, 
The  watchful  guardians  of  our  heedless  race  ; 


6 1 4  TRANS  LA  TIONS 


Thy  various  creatures  in  one  strain  agree, 

All,  in  all  times  and  places,  speak  of  Thee ; 

Even  I,  with  trembling  heart  and  stammering  tongue, 

Attempt  Thy  praise,  and  join  the  general  song. 

Almighty  Former  of  this  wondrous  plan, 
Faintly  reflected  in  Thine  image,  man — 
Holy  and  just — the  greatness  of  whose  name 
Fills  and  supports  this  universal  frame, 
Diffused  throughout  the  infinitude  of  space, 
Who  art  Thyself  Thine  own  vast  dwelling-place ; 
Soul  of  our  soul,  whom  yet  no  sense  of  ours 
Discerns,  eluding  our  most  active  powers  ; 
Encircling  shades  attend  Thine  awful  throne, 
That  veil  Thy  face,  and  keep  Thee  still  unknown  ; 
Unknown,  though  dwelling  in  our  inmost  part, 
Lord  of  the  thoughts,  and  Sovereign  of  the  heart. 

Repeat  the  charming  truth,  that  never  tires, 
No  God  is  like  the  God  my  soul  desires ; 
He  at  whose  voice  heaven  trembles,  even  He, 
Great  as  He  is,*  knows  how  to  stoop  to  me 
Lo  !  there  He  lies — that  smiling  infant  said, 
"Heaven,  Earth,  and  Sea,  exist!" — and  they  obeyed. 
Even  He  whose  being  swells  beyond  the  skies, 
Is  born  of  woman,  lives,  and  mourns,  and  dies  ; 
Eternal  and  Immortal,  seems  to  cast 
That  glory  from  His  brows,  arid  breathes  his  last. 
Trivial  and  vain  the  works  that  man  has  wrought, 
How  do  they  shrink  and  vanish  at  the  thought ! 

Sweet  Solitude,  and  scene  of  my  repose  I 
This  rustic  sight  assuages  all  iny  woes — 
That  crib  contains  the  Lord,  whom  I  adore  ; 
And  earth's  a  shade,  that  I  pursue  no  more. 
He  is  my  firm  support,  my  rock,  my  tower, 
I  dwell  secure  beneath  His  .sheltering  power, 
And  hold  this  mean  retreat  forever  dear, 
For  all  I  love,  my  soul's  delight,  is  here. 
I  see  the  Almighty  swathed  in  infant  bands, 
Tied  helpless  down  the  Thunder-bearer's  hands  ! 
And  in  this  shed  that  mystery  discern, 
Which  Faith  and  Love,  and  they  alone,  can  learn. 

Ye  tempests,  spare  the  slumbers  of  your  Lord  I 
Ye  zephyrs,  all  your  whispered  sweets  afford  ! 
Confess  the  God  that  guides  the  rolling  year  ; 
Heaven,  do  Him  homage  ;  and  thon,  Earth,  revere ! 
Ye  shepherds,  monarchs,  sages,  hither  bring 
Your  hearts  an  offering,  and  adore  your  King  1 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYOtf.  615 

Pure  be  those  hearts  and  rich  in  Faith  and  Love  ; 
Join  in  His  Praise,  the  harmonious  world  above  ; 
To  Bethlehem  haste,  rejoice  in  His  repose, 
And  praise  Him  there  for  all  that  he  bestows  ! 
Man,  busy  man,  alas,  can  ill  afford 

To  obey  the  summons  and  attend  the  Lord  ; 
Perverted  reason  revels  and  runs  wild, 
By  glittering  shows  of  pomp  and  wealth  beguiled  ; 
And,  blind  to  genuine  excellence  and  grace, 
Finds  not  her  Author  in  so  mean  a  place. 
Ye  unbelieving  !  learn  a  wiser  part, 
Distrust  your  erring  sense,  and  search  your  heart ; 
There  soon  ye  shall  perceive  a  kindling  flame 
Glow  for  that  infant  God,  from  whom  it  came ; 
Resist  not,  quench  not,  that  divine  desire, 
Melt  all  your  adamant  in  heavenly  fire  ! 

Not  so  will  1  requite  thee,  gentle  Love! 
Yielding  and  soft  this  In-art  shall  ever  prove  ; 
And  every  heart  beneath  thy  power  should  fall, 
Glad  to  submit,  could  mine  contain  them  all. 
But  I  am  poor,  oblation  1  have  none, 
None  for  a  Saviour,  but  Himself  alone: 
Whate'er  I  render  Thee,  from  Thee  it  came; 
And  if  I  give  my  body  to  the  flame, 
My  patience,  love,  and  energy  divine 
Of  heart,  and  soul,  and  spirit,  all  are  Thine. 
Ah,  vain  attempt  to  expunge  the  mighty  score! 
The  more  I  pay,  I  owe  Thee  still  the  more. 

Upon  my  meanness,  poverty,  and  guilt, 
The  trophy  of  my  glory  shall  be  built ; 
My  self-disdain  shall  be  the  unshaken  base, 
And  my  deformity  its  fairest  grace  ; 
For  destitute  of  good,  and  rich  in  ill, 
Must  be  my  state  and  my  description  still. 

And  do  I  grieve  at  such  an  humbling  lot  ? 
Nay,  but  I  cherish  and  enjoy  the  thought — 
Vain  pageantry  and  pomp  of  earth,  adieu  1 
I  have  no  wish,  no  memory  for  you.  f 

The  more  I  feel  my  misery,  I  adore 
The  sacred  inmate  of  my  soul  the  more  ; 
Rich  in  his  Love,  I  feel  my  noblest  pride 
Spring  from  the  sense  of  having  nought  beside. 

In  Thee  I  find  wealth,  comfort,  virtue,  might ; 
My  wanderings  prove  Thy  wisdom  infinite  ; 
All  that  I  iiave  I  give  Thee  ;  and  then  see 
All  contrarieties  unite  in  Thee  ; 
For  Thou  hast  ioined  them,  taking  up  our  woe. 


6 1 6  TRANS  LA  TIONS 


And  pouring  out  Thy  bliss  on  worms  below, 

By  filling  with  Thy  grace  arid  love  divine 

A  gulf  of  evil  in  this  heart  of  mine. 

This  is,  indeed,  to  bid  the  valleys  rise, 

And  the  hills  sink- -'tis  matching  earth  and  skies ! 

I  feel  my  weakness,  thank  Thee,  and  deplore 

An  aching  heart,  that  throbs  to  thank  Thee  more ; 

The  more  I  love  Thee,  I  the  more  reprove 

A  soul  so  lifeless,  and  so  slow  to  love  ; 

Till,  on  a  deluge  of  Thy  mercy  tossed, 

I  plunge  into  that  sea,  and  there  am  lost. 

GOD     NEITHER    KNOWN     NOR    LOVED    BY     THE 

WORLD. 

YE  Linnets,  let  us  try,  beneath  this  grove, 

Which  shall  be  loudest  in  our  Maker's  praise  ! 

In  quest  of  some  forlorn  retreat  I  rove, 

For  all  the  world  is  blind,  and  wanders  from  His  ways. 

That  God  alone  should  prop  the  sinking  soul, 
Fills  them  with  rage  against  His  empire  now : 
I  traverse  earth  in  vain  from  pole  to  pole, 
To  seek  one  simple  heart,  set  free  from  all  below. 

They  speak  of  Love,  yet  little  feel  its  sway, 
While  in  their  bosoms  many  an  idol  lurks  ; 
Their  base  desires,  well  satisfied,  obey, 
Leave  the  Creator's  hand,  and  lean  upon  His  works. 

'Tis  therefore  I  can  dwell  with  man  no  more ; 
Your  fellowship,  ye  warblers  !  suits  me  best : 
Pure  Love  has  lost  its  price,  though  prized  of  yore, 
Profaned  by  modern  tongues,  and  slighted  as  a  jest. 

My  God,  who  formed  you  for  His  praise  alone, 
Beholds  His  purpose  well  fuliilled  in  you  \ 
Come,  let  us  join  the  choir  before  His  throne, 
Partaking  in  His  praise  with  spirits  just  and  true 

Yes,  I  will  always  love  ;  and,  as  I  ought, 
Tune  to  the  praise  of  Love  my  ceaseless  voice  ; 
Preferring  Love  too  vast  for  human  thought, 
In  spite  of  erring  men,  who  cavil  at  my  choice. 

Why  have  I  not  a  thousand  thousand  hearts, 
Lord  of  my  soul !  that  they  might  all  be  Thine  ? 
If  Thou  approve — the  zeal  Thy  smile  imparts, 
How  should  it  ever  fail !     Can  such  a  fire  decline  ? 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON.  617 

Love,  pure  and  holy,  is  a  deathless  fire ; 

Its  object  heavenly,  it  must  ever  blaze : 

Eternal  Love  a  (rod  must  needs  inspire, 

When  once  He  wins  the  heart,  and  fits  it  for  His  praise. 

Self-love  dismissed- -'tis  when  we  live  indeed — 

In  her  embrace,  death,  only  death,  is  found  : 

Come,  then,  one  noble  effort,  and  succeed, 

Cast  off  the  chain  of  Self  with  which  thy  soul  is  bound  I 

Oh  I  I  would  cry,  that  all  the  world  might  hear, 

Ye  self-tormentors,  love  your  God  alone  ; 

Let  His  unequalled  excellence  be  dear, 

Dear  to  your  inmost  souls,  and  make  Him  all  your  own  I 

They  hear  me  not — alas  !  how  fond  to  rove 

In  endless  chase  of  Folly's  specious  lure  I 

"Pis  here  alone,  beneath  this  shady  grove, 

I  taste  the  sweets  of  Truth — here  only  am  secure. 


THE  SWALLOW. 

I  AM  fond  of  the  Swallow — I  learn  from  her  flight, 
Had  I  skill  to  improve  it,  a  lesson  of  Love : 
How  seldom  on  earth  do  we  see  her  alight  I 
She  dwells  in  the  skies,  she  is  ever  above. 

It  is  on  the  wing  that  she  takes  her  repose. 
Suspended  and  poised  in  the  regions  of  air, 
'Tis  not  in  our  fields  that  her  sustenance  grows, 
It  is  winged  like  herself,  'tis  ethereal  fare. 

She  comes  in  the  spring,  all  the  summer  she  stays, 
And,  dreading  the  cold,  still  follows  the  sun — 
So,  true  to  our  Love,  we  should  covet  his  rays, 
And  the  place  where  he  shines  not,  immediately  shun. 

Our  light  should  be  Love,  and  our  nourishment  prayer  \ 
It  is  dangerous  food  that  we  find  upon  earth  j 
The  fruit  of  this  world  is  beset  with  a  snare, 
In  itself  it  is  hurtful,  as  vile  in  its  birth. 

'Tis  rarely,  if  ever,  she  settles  below, 
And  only  when  building  a  nest  for  her  young  ; 
Were  it  not  for  her  brood,  she  would  never  bestow 
A  thought  upon  anything  filthy  as  dung. 


6x8 


TRANSLATIONS 


Let  us  leave  it  ourselves  ('tis  a  mortal  abode), 
To  bask  every  moment  in  infinite  Love  ; 
Let  us  fly  the  dark  winter,  and  follow  the  road 
That  leads  to  the  dayspring  appearing  above. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  HEAVENLY  LOVE  DESIRED. 

AH  !  reign,  wherever  man  is  found, 

My  Spouse,  beloved  and  divine  I 
Then  I  am  rich,  and  I  abound, 

When  every  human  heart  is  thine. 

A  thousand  sorrows  pierce  my  soul, 
To  think  that  all  are  not  thine  own 

Ah  !  be  adored  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Where  is  thy  zeal  ?  arise  ;  be  known! 

All  hearts  are  cold,  in  every  place, 

Yet  earthly  good  with  warmth  pursue  ; 

Dissolve  them  with  a  flash  of  grace, 
Thaw  these  of  ice,  and  give  us  new  I 


A  FIGURATIVE  DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  PROCEDURE 

OF  DIVINE  LOVE, 

IN  BRINGING  A  SOUL   TO  THE  POINT  OF  SELF-RENUNCIATION  AND 

ABSOLUTE  ACQUIESCENCE. 


'TWAS  my  purpose,  on  a  day, 
To  embark,  and  sail  away  ; 
As  I  climbed  the  vessel's  side, 
Love  was  sporting  in  the  tide  ; 
''Come,"   he   said, — "ascend — 
make  haste,  waste." 

Launch     into     the     boundless 

Many  mariners  were  there, 
Having  each  his  separate  care  ; 
They  that  rowed  us  held  their 

eyes 

Fixed  upon  the  starry  skies ; 
Others    steered,   or   turned    the 

sails 
To  receive  the  shifting  gales. 


Love,  with    power  divine  sup- 
plied, 

Suddenly  my  courage  tried  ; 
In  a  moment  it  was  night, 
Ship    and     skies    were    out  of 

sight ; 

On  the  briny  wave  I  lay, 
Floating  rushes  all  my  stay. 

Did  I  with  resentment  burn 
At  this  unexpected  turn  ? 
Did  I  wish  myself  on  shore, 
Never  to  forsake  it  more  ? 
No — "My  soul,"   I  cried,  "be 

still  ; 
If  I  must  be  lost,  I  will." 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


619 


Next  he  hastened  to  convey 
Both  my  frail  supports  away  ; 
Seized    my     rushes ;    bade    the 

waves 

Yawn  into  a  thousand  graves  : 
Down  I  went,  and  sunk  as  lead, 
Ocean  closing  o'er  my  head. 

Still,  however,  life  was  safe  ; 
And  I  saw  him  turn  and  laugh  : 
"Friend,"  he  cried,  "adieu  I  lie 

low, 
While  the  wintry  storms  shall 

blow  ; 
When  the  spring  has  calmed  the 

main, 
You  shall  rise  and  float  again." 

Soon  I  saw  him,  with  dismay, 
Spread    his    plumes,   and    soar 

away  ; 

Now  I  mark  his  rapid  flight  ; 
Now  he  leaves  my  aching  sight ; 
He  is  gone  whom  I  adore, 
'Tis  in  vain  to  seek  him  more. 

How    I     trembled      then     and 

feared, 

When  my  love  had  disappeared ! 
"  Wilt  thou  leave  me   thus,"  I 

cried, 
"  Whelmed  beneath  the  rolling 

tide  ?  " 


Vain  attempt  to  reach  his  ear  I 
Love  was  gone  and  would  not 
hear. 

"  Ah  !  return,  and  love  me  still; 
See  me  subject  to  thy  will ; 
Frown  with  wrath,  or  smile  with 

grace, 

Only  let  me  see  thy  face  1 
Evil  I  have  none  to  fear, 
All  is  good,  if  thou  art  near.'* 

Yet  He  leaves  me — cruel  fate  ! 
Leaves  me  in  my  lost  estate — 
"Have  I  sinned?  Oh,  say  wherein; 
Tell  me,  and  forgive  my  sin  ; 
King,  and  Lord,  whom  I  adore, 
^htill  1  see  thy  face  no  more? 

'*  Be  not  angry  ;  I  resignf 
Henceforth,  aW  my  will  to  thine: 
I  consent  that  thou  depart, 
Though  thine  absence  breaks  my 

heart ; 

Go,  then,  and  forever  too  ; 
All  is  right  that  thou  wilt  do." 

This  was  just  what    Love    in- 
tended, 

He  was  now  no  more  offended  ; 
Soon  as  I  became  a  child, 
Love  returned  to  me  and  smiled; 
Never  strife  shall  more  betide 
;Twixt  the  Bridegroom  and  his 
Bride. 


TPUTIT  AND  DIVINE  LOVE  REJECTED  BY 

THE  WORLD. 


O  LOVE,  of  pure  and  heavenly  birth  1 
O  simple  Truth,  scarce  known  on  earth  ! 
Whom  men  resist  with  stubborn  will ; 
And,  more  perverse  and  daring  still, 
Smother  and  quench,  with  reasonings  vain, 
While  Error  and  Deception  reign. 


620  TRANSLATIONS 


Whence  comes  it,  that,  your  power  the  same 
As  His  on  high,  from  whence  you  came, 
Ye  rarely  find  a  listening  ear, 
Or  heart  that  makes  you  welcome  here  ? — 
Because  ye  bring  reproach  and  pain, 
Where'er  ye  visit,  in  your  train. 

The  world  is  proud,  and  cannot  bear 
The  scorn  and  calumny  ye  share  ; 
The  praise  of  men  the  mark  they  mean, 
They  fly  the  place  where  ye  are  seen  ; 
Pure  love,  with  scandal  in  the  rear, 
Suits  not  the  vain  \  it  costs  too  dear. 

Then,  let  the  price  be  what  it  may, 
Though  poor,  I  am  prepared  to  pay  ; 
Come  Shame,  come  Sorrow  ;  spite  of  tears, 
Weakness,  and  heart-oppressing  fears  ; 
One  soul,  at  least,  shall  not  repine, 
To  give  you  room  ;  coine  reign  in  mine  1 


DIVINE  JUSTICE  AMIABLE.* 

THOU  hast  no  lightnings,  O  Thou  Just  I 
Or  I  their  force  should  know  ; 

And  if  thou  strike  me  into  dust, 
My  soul  approves  the  blow. 

The  heart,  that  values  less  its  ease 

Than  it  adores  Thy  ways, 
In  Thine  avenging  anger  sees 

A  subject  of  its  praise. 

Pleased  I  could  lie,  concealed  and  lost, 

In  shades  of  central  night ; 
Not  to  avoid  Thy  wrath,  Thou  k newest, 

But  lest  I  grieve  Thy  sight. 

Smite  me,  O  Thou  whom  I  provoke ! 

And  I  will  love  Thee  still : 
The  well-deserved  and  righteous  stroke 

Shall  please  me,  though  it  kill. 

*  Written  when  her  son  died. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON.  621 


An;  I  not  \vorihy  to  sustain 
The  worst  Thou  oanst  devise : 

And  dare  J  seek  Tliy  throne  again, 
And  meet  Thy  sa<-red  eyes  ? 

Far  from  afflicting.  Thou  art  kind  ; 

And,  in  my  saddest  hours, 
An  unction  of  Thy  grace  I  find, 

Pervading  all  my  powers. 

Alas  !  Thou  sparest  me  yet  again  ; 

And,  when  Thy  wrath  should  move, 
Too  gentle  to  endure  my  pain, 

Thou  sooth' st  me  with  Thy  Love. 

I  have  no  punishment  to  fear  ; 

But,  ah  !   that  smile  from  Thee 
Imparts  a  pan.u'  far  more  >'-vere 

Than  woe  itself  would  be. 


THE   SOUL  THAT  LOVES   GOD  FINDS  IIBi 

EVERYWHERE. 

0  THOU,  hy  long  experience  tried, 
Near  whom  no  grief  can  long  abide  ; 
My  Love  !  h«»w  full  of  sweet  content 

1  pass  my  yean  of  banishment  1 

All  scenes  alike  engaging  prove 
To  souls  impre»ed  with  sacred  Love  I 
Where'er  they  dwell,  they  dwell  in  Thee; 
In  heaven,  in  earth,  or  on  the  sea. 

To  me  remains  nor  place  nor  time; 
My  country  is  in  every  clime  ; 
I  can  be  calm  and  free  from  care, 
On  any  shore,  since  God  is  there. 

While  place  we  seefc,  or  place  we  shun, 
The  soul  finds  happiness  in  none ; 
But  with  a  God  to  guide  our  way, 
'Tis  equal  joy  to  go  or  stay. 

Could  I  be  cast  where  Thou  art  not, 
That  were  indeed  a  dreadful  lot ; 
But  regions  none  remote  I  call, 
Secure  of  finding  God  in  all. 


622 


TRANSLA  T/OMS 


My  country,  Lord,  art  Thou  alone  ; 
Nor  other  can  I  claim  or  own  ; 
The  point  where  all  my  wishes  meet ; 
My  Law,. my  Love ;  life's  only  sweet ! 

I  hold  by  nothing  here  below ; 

Appoint  my  journey,  and  I  go  ; 

Though  pierced  by  scorn,  oppressed  by  pride, 

I  feel  Thee  good — feel  nought  beside. 

No  frowns  of  men  can  hurtful  prove 
To  souls  on  fire  with  heavenly  Love  ; 
Though  men  and  devils  both  condemn, 
No  gloomy  days  arise  from  them. 

Ah  then  !  to  His  embrace  repair ; 
My  soul,  thou  art  no  stranger  there  ; 
There  Love  Divine  shall  be  thy  guard, 
And  peace  and  safety  thy  reward. 


A   CHILD   OF  GOD  LONGING  TO  SEE  HIM 

BELOVED. 


THERE'S  not  aii  echo  round  me, 

But  I  am  glad  should  learn, 
How  pure  a  fire  has  found  me,- 

The  Love  with  which  I  burn. 
For  none  attends  with  pleasure 

To  what  I  would  reveal ; 
They  slight  me  out  of  measure, 

And  laugh  at  all  I  feel. 

The  rocks  receive  less  proudly 

The  story  of  iny  flame  ; 
When  I  approach,  they  loudly 

Reverberate  His  name. 
I  speak  to  them  of  sadness, 

And  comforts  at  a  stand ; 
They  bid  me  look  for  gladness, 

And  better  days  at  hand. 

Far  from  all  habitation, 
I  heard  a  happy  sound  ; 

Big  with  the  consolation, 
That  I  have  often  found  : 


I  said  "  My  lot  is  sorrow, 
My  grief  has  no  alloy ;  " 

The  rocks  replied — "  To-morrow 
To-morrow  brings  thee  joy." 

These  sweet  and  secret  tidings, 

What  bliss  it  is  to  hear ! 
For,  spite  of  all  my  chidings, 

My  weakness,  and  my  fear, 
No  sooner  I  receive  them, 

Than  I  forget  my  pain, 
And,  happy  to  believe  them, 

I  love  as  much  again. 

1  fly  to  scenes  romantic, 

Where  never  men  resort  j 
For  in  an  age  so  frantic 

Impiety  is  sport. 
For  riot  and  confusion 

They  barter  things  above  ; 
Condemning,  as  delusion, 

The  joy  of  perfect  Love. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


023 


this  sequestered  corner, 

None  hears  what  I  express  ; 
Delivered  from  the  scorner. 

What  peace  do  I  possess  ! 
Beneath  the  boughs  reclining 

Or  roving  o'er  the  wild, 
I  live  as  undesigning 

And  harmless  as  a  ^hild. 


No  troubles  here  surprise  me, 

I  innocently  play, 
While  Providence  supplies  me, 

And  guards  me  all  the  day 
My  dear  and  kind  Defender 

Preserves  me  safely  here, 
From  men  of  pomp  andsplendoi 

Who  fill  a  child  with  fear. 


ASPIRATIONS  OF  THE  SOUL  AFTER  GOD. 


MY  Spouse  !  in  whose  presence  I 

live, 

Sole  object  of  all  my  desires, 
Who  know'st   what   a   flame   I 

conceive, 
And    canst  easily  double   its 

fires ; 
How  pleasant  is  all  that  I  meet ! 

From  fear  of  adversity  free, 
I  find  even  sorrow  made  sweet ; 
Because   'tis  assigned   me   by 
Thee. 

Transported  I  see  Thee  display 

Thy  riches  and  glory  divine; 
I  have  only  my  life  to  repay, 

Take  what  I  would  gladly  re- 
sign. 
Thy  will  is  the  treasure  I  seek, 

For  Thou   art  as  faithful   as 

strong  ; 
There  let  me,  obedient  and  meek, 

Repose  myself  all  the  day  long. 


My  spirit  and  faculties  fail ; 
Oh     finish     what     Love    has 

begun  ! 

Destroy  what  is  sinful  and  frail, 
And  dwell  in  the  soul  Thou 

hast  won ! 
Dear  theme  of  my  wonder  and 

praise, 

I  cry,  who  is  worthy  as  Thou  ! 
I  can  only  be  silent  and  gaze : 
Tis  all  that  is  left  to  me  now. 

O  glory,  in  which  I  am  lost, 
Too  deep  for  the  plummet  of 
thought J 

On  an  ocean  of  deity  tossed, 
I  am   swallowed,  1   sink  into 

nought. 

Yet,  lost  and  absorbed  as  I  seem, 
I  chant  to   the   praise  of  my 

King; 
And,  though  overwhelmed  by  the 

theme, 
Am  happy  whenever  I  sing. 


GRATITUDE  AND  LOVE  TO  GOD.* 


ALL  are  indebted  much  to  thee, 
But  I  far  more  than  all, 

Prom  many  a  deadly  snare  set 

free, 
And  raised  from  many  a  fall. 


Overwhelm  me,  from  above, 
Daily,  with  Thy  boundless  Love. 

What  bonds  of  gratitude  I  feel, 
No  language  can  declare  ; 


*  Written  when  she  believed  herself  converted. 


524 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


Beneath  the  oppressive  weight  I 

reel, 

'Tis  more  than  I  can  bear  : 
When  shall  I  that  blessing  prove, 
To  return  thee  Love  for  Love  ? 

Spirit  of  Charity,  dispense 
Thy  grace  to  every  heart  ; 

Expel  all  others  spirits  thence, 
Drive  Self  from  every  part ; 

Charity  divine,  draw  nigh, 
Break  the  chains  in  which  we 
lie! 


All   selfish  souls,  whate'er  they 
feign, 

Have  still  a  slavish  lot ; 
They  boast  of  Liberty  in  vain., 

Of  Love,  and  feel  it  not. 
He  whose  bosom  glows  with  Thee 
He,  and  he  alone,  is  free. 

O  blessedness,  all  bliss  above, 
When  thy  pure  fires  prevail ! 

Love  only  teaches  what  is  Love. 
All  other  lessons  fail : 

We  learn  its  name,*but  not  its 
powers, 

Experience  only  makes  it  ours. 


HAPPY  SOLITUDE—  UNHAPPY  MEN. 


MY  heart  is  easy,  and  my  burthen  light  ; 

I  smile,  though  sad,  when  Thou  art  in  my  sight  : 

The  more  my  woes  in  secret  I  deplore, 

I  taste  Thy  goodness,  and  I  love,  the  more. 

There,  while  a  solemn  stillness  reigns  around, 
Faith,  Love,  and  Hope  within  my  soul  abound  \ 
And,  while  the  world  suppose  me  lost  in  care, 
The  joys  of  angels,  unperceived,  I  share. 

Thy  creatures  wrong  thee,  O  Thou  Sovereign  Good  I 
Thou  art  not  loved,  because  not  understood  ; 
This  grieves  me  most,  that  vain  pursuits  beguile 
Ungrateful  men,  regardless  of  Thy  smile. 

Frail  beauty  and  false  honor  are  adored  : 
While  Thee  they  scorn,  and  trifle  with  Thy  Word; 
Pass,  unconcerned,  a  Saviour's  sorrow  by  ; 
Aiid  hunt  their  ruin  with  a  zeal  to 


LIVING  WATER. 

THE  fountain  in  its  source 
No  drought  of  summer  fears : 

The  farther  it  pursues  its  course. 
The  nobler  it  appears. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON.  625 

But  shallow  cisterns  yield 

A  scanty,  short  supply  ; 
The  morning  sees  them  amply  filled, 

At  evening  they  are  dry. 


THE  TESTIMONY  OF  DIVINE  ADOPTION 

How  happy  are  the  new-born  race  ; 
Partakers  of  adopting  grace  ; 

How  pure  the  bliss  they  share  1 
Hid  from  the  world  and  all  its  eyes, 
Within  their  heart  the  blessing  lies, 

And  Conscience  feels  it  there. 

The  moment  we  believe,  'tis  ours  ; 
And  if  we  love  with  all  our  powers 

The  God  from  whom  it  came  ; 
And  if  we  serve  with  hearts  sincere, 
'Tis  still  discernible  arid  clear, 

An  undisputed  claim. 

But,  ah  I  if  foul  and  wilful  sin 
Stain  and  dishonor  us  within, 

Farewell  the  joy  we  knew  ; 
Again  the  slaves  of  Nature's  sway, 
In  labyrinths  of  our  own  we  stray, 

Without  a  guide  or  clue. 

The  chaste  and  pure,  who  fear  to  grieve 
The  gracious  Spirit  they  receive, 

His  work  distinctly  trace  : 
And,  strong  in  undissembling  love, 
Boldly  assert  and  clearly  prove 

Their  hearts  His  dwelling-place. 

O  messenger  of  dear  delight, 

Whose  voice  dispels  the  deepest  night, 

Sweet  peace-proclaiming  Dove  1 
With  thee  at  hand,  to  soothe  our  pain*. 
No  wish  unsatisfied  remains, 

No  task  but  that  of  Lovo. 

Tis  Love  unites  what  Sin  divides  \ 
The  centre  where  all  bliss  resides, 

To  which  the  soul  once  brought; 
Reclining  on  the  first  great  Cause, 
From  His  abounding  sweetness  draws. 

Pe*ce  passing  human  thought. 


626  TRANSLA  T1ONS 


Sorrow  foregoes  its  nature  there, 
And  life  assumes  a  tranquil  air 

Divested  of  its  woes  ; 

There  sovereign  Goodness  soothes  the  breast 
Till  then  incapable  of  rest, 

In  sacred  sure  repose. 


DIVINE  LOVE  ENDURES  NO  RIVA1 

LOVE  is  the  Lord  whom  I  obey, 
Whose  will  transported  I  perform  ; 
The  centre  of  my  rest,  my  stay, 
Love !  all  in  all  to  me,  myself  a  worm . 

For  uncreated  charms  I  burn, 

Oppressed  by  slavish  fear  no  more  ; 

For  One  in  whom  I  may  discern, 

Even  when  He  frowns,  a  sweetness  I  adore. 

He  little  loves  Him  who  complains, 
And  finds  Him  rigorous  and  severe  ; 
His  Heart  is  sordid,  and  he  feigns, 
Though  loud  in  boasting  of  a  soul  sincere. 

Love  causes  grief,  but  'tis  to  move 
And  stimulate  the  slumbering  mind  ; 
And  he  has  never  tasted  Love, 
Who  shuns  a  pang  so  graciously  designed, 

Sweet  is  the  cross,  above  all  sweets, 
To  souls  enamoured  with  Thy  smiles  ; 
The  keenest  woe  life  ever  meets, 
Love  strips  of  all  its  terrors,  and  beguiles, 

'Tis  just  that  God  should  not  be  dear, 
Where  Self  engrosses  all  the  thought, 
And  groans  and  murmurs  make  it  clear. 
Whatever  else  is  loved,  the  Lord  is  not. 

The  Love  of  Thee  flows  just  as  much 
As  that  of  ebbing  Self  subsides  ; 
Our  hearts,  their  scantiness  is  such, 
Bear  not  the  conflict  of  two  rival  tides. 

Both  cannot  govern  in  one  soul ; 

Then  let  Self-love  be  dispossessed  ; 

The  love  of  God  deserves  the  whole, 

And  will  not  dwell  with  so  despised  a  guest. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


SELF-DIFFIDENCE. 


627 


SOURCE  of  love,  and  light  of  day, 
Tear  me  from  myself  away  ; 
Every  view  and  thought  of  mine 
Cast  into  the  mould  of  Thine  ; 
Teach,   oh   teach,   this  faithless 

heart, 

A.  consistent,  constant  part ; 
Or,  if  it  must  live  to  grow 
More  rebellious,  break  it  now  ! 

Is  it  thus  that  I  requite 
Grace  and  goodness  infinite  ? 
Every  trace  of  every  boon, 
Cancelled  and  erased  so  soon  ! 
Can  I  grieve  Thee,  whom  I  love; 
Thee,  in  whom  I  live  and  move  ? 
If  my  sorrow  touch  Thee  still, 
Save  me  from  so  great  an  ill ! 

Oh !      the    oppressive,    irksome 

weight, 

Felt  in  an  uncertain  state  ; 
Comfort,  peace,  and  rest,  adieu, 
Should  I  prove  at  last  untrue ! 
Still  I  choose  Thee,  follow  still 


Every  notice  of  Thy  will ; 
But  unstable,  strangely  weak, 
Still  let  slip  the  good  I  seek. 

Self-confiding  wretch,  I  thought 
I  could  serve  thee  as  I  ought, 
Win  thee,  and  deserve  to  feel 
All  the  Love  Thou  canst  reveal ; 
Trusting  Self,  a  bruised  reed, 
Is  to  be  deceived  indeed  : 
Save  me  from  this  harm  and  loss, 
Lest  my  gold  turn  all  to  dross ! 

Self  is  earthly — Faith  alone 
Makes  an  unseen  world  our  own; 
Faith     relinquished,     how     we 

roam, 
Feel    our  way,    and   leave    our 

home ! 

Spurious  gems  our  hopes  entice, 
While    we    scorn    the   pearl    of 

price  ; 

And,  preferring  servants'  pay, 
Cast  the  children's  bread  away 


THE  ACQUIESCENCE  OF  PURE  LOVE. 

LOVE  !  if  Thy  destined  sacrifice  am  I, 
Come,  slay  thy  victim,  and  prepare  thy  fires  : 
Plunged  in  thy  depths  of  mercy,  let  me  die 
The  death  which  every  soul  that  lives  desires  ! 

I  watch  my  hours,  and  see  them  fleet  away  ; 
The  time  is  long  that  I  have  languished  here  ; 
Yet  all  my  thoughts  Thy  purposes  obey, 
With  no  reluctance,  cheerful  and  sincere. 

To  me  'tis  equal,  whether  Love  ordain 
My  life  or  death,  appoint  rne  pain  or  ease; 
My  soul  perceives  no  real  ill  in  pain  ; 
In  ease  or  health  no  real  good  she  sees. 


628  TRANSLA  TlOtfS 


One  Good  she  covets,  and  that  Good  alone, 
To  choose  Thy  will,  from  selfish  bias  free  ; 
And  to  prefer  a  cottage  to  a  throne, 
And  grief  to  comfort,  if  it  pleases  Thee. 

That  we  should  bear  the  cross  is  Thy  command, 
Die  to  the  world,  and  live  to  Self  no  more  ; 
Suffer,  unmoved,  beneath  the  rudest  hand, 
As  pleased  when  shipwrecked  as  when  safe  on  shore. 


RWPOSE  IN  GOD. 

BLEST  !  who,  far  from  all  mankind, 
This  world's  shadows  left  behind, 
Hears  from  heaven  a  gentle  strain 
Whispering  Love,  and  loves  again. 

Blest !  who,  free  from  Self-esteem, 
Dives  into  the  Great  Supreme, 
All  desire  besides  discards, 
Joys  inferior  none  regards. 

Blest !  who  in  thy  bosom  seeks, 
Rest  that  nothing  earthly  breaks, 
Dead  to  self  and  worldly  things, 
Lost  in  Thee,  thou  King  of  kings  I 

Ye  that  know  my  secret  fire, 
Softly  speak  and  soon  retire  j 
Favor  my  divine  repose, 
Spare  the  sleep  a  God  bestows. 


GLORY  TO  GOD  ALONE. 

OH  loved  !  but  not  enough — though  dearer  far 
Than  Self  and  its  most  loved  enjoyments  are  ;. 
None  duly  loves  Thee,  but  who,  nobly  free 
From  sensual  objects,  finds  his  all  in  Thee. 

Glory  of  God !  thou  stranger  here  below, 
Whom  man  nor  knows,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  know 
Our  faith  and  reason  are  both  shocked  to  find 
Man  in  the  post  of  honor — Thee  behind. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON.  629 


Reason  exclaims  —  "  Let  every  creature  fall, 
Ashamed,  abased,  before  the  Lord  of  all  ;  ' 
And  Faith,  o'erwhelmed  with  such  a  dazzling  blaze 
Feebly  describes  the  beauty  she  surveys. 

Yet  man,  dim-sighted  man,  and  rash  as  blind, 
Deaf  to  the  dictates  of  his  better  mind, 
In  frantic  competition  dares  the  skies, 
Arid  claims  precedence  of  the  Only  Wise. 

Oh  lost  in  vanity,  till  once  self-known  ! 
Nothing  is  great,  or  good,  but  God  alone  ; 
When  thou  shalt  stand  before  His  awful  face, 
Then,  at  the  last,  thy  pride  shall  knew  his  place. 

Glorious,  Almighty,  First,  and  Without  End! 
When  wilt  Thou  melt  the  mountains  and  descend  ? 
When  wilt  thou  shoot  abroad  Tliy  conquering  rays, 
And  teach  these  atoms  Thou  hast  made,  Thy  praise? 

Thy  Glory  is  the  sweetest  heaven  I  feel  ; 
And,  if  I  seek  it  with  too  fierce  a  zeal, 
Thy  Love,  triumphant  o'er  a  selfish  will, 
Taught  me  the  passion,  and  inspires  it  still. 

My  reason,  all  my  faculties,  unite, 
To  make  Thy  glory  their  supreme  delight  ; 
Forbid  it,  Fountain  of  my  brightest  days, 
That  I  should  rob  Thee,  and  usurp  Thy  praise  ! 

My  soul  !  rest  happy  in  thy  low  estate, 
Nor  hope,  nor  wish,  to  be  esteemed  or  great  ; 
To  take  the  impression  of  a  will  divine, 
Be  that  thy  glory,  and  those  riches  thine. 

Confess  Him  righteous  in  His  just  decrees. 

Love  what  He  loves,  and  let  His  pleasure  please  ; 

Die  daily  ;  from  the  touch  of  sin  recede  ; 

Then  thou  hast  crowned  Him,  and  He  reigns  indeed. 


SELF-LOVE  AND  TRUTH  INCOMPATIBLE. 

FROM  thorny  wilds  a  monster  came, 
That  filled  my  soul  with  fear  and  shame  ; 
The  birds,  forgetful  of  their  mirth. 
Drooped  at  the  sight,  and  fell  to  earth  ; 


630  TRANSLATIONS 


When  thus  a  sage  addressed  mine  ear, 
Himself  unconscious  of  a  fear. 

'*  Whence  all  this  terror,  and  surprise, 
Distracted  looks,  and  streaming  eyes  ? 
Far  from  the  world  and  its  affairs, 
The  joy  it  boasts,  the  pain  it  shares, 
Surrender,  without  guile  or  art, 
To  God,  an  undivided  hoart  \ 
The  savage  form,  so  feared  before, 
Shall  scare  your  trembling  soul  no  more ; 
For  loathsome  as  the  sight  may  be, 
'Tis  but  the  Love  of  Self  you  see. 
Fix  all  your  Love  on  God  alone, 
Choose  but  His  will,  and  hate  your  own  : 
No  fear  shall  in  your  path  be  found, 
The  dreary  waste  shall  bloom  around, 
And  you,  through  all  your  happy  days, 
Shall  bless  His  name,  and  sing  His  praise.*' 

O  lovely  solitude,  how  sweet 
The  silence  of  this  calm  retreat ! 
Here  Truth,  the  fair  whom  I  pursue, 
Gives  all  her  beauty  to  my  view  ; 
The  simple,  unadorned  display 
Charms  every  pain  and  fear  away. 
O  Truth !  whom  millions  proudly  slight ; 
O  Truth  !  my  treasure  and  delight ; 
Accept  this  tribute  to  thy  name, 
And  this  poor  heart  from  which  it  came  I 


LOVE  FAITHFUL  IN  THE  ABSENCE  OF  THE 

BELOVED. 

IN  vain  ye  woo  me  to  your  harmless  joys, 
Ye  pleasant  bowers,  remote  from  strife  and  noise ; 
Your  shades,  the  witnesses  of  many  a  vow, 
Breathed  forth  in  happier  days,  are  irksome  now, 
Denied  that  smile  'twas  once  my  heaven  to  see, 
Such  scenes,  such  pleasures,  are  all  passed  with  me. 

In  vain  He  leaves  me,  I  shall  love  Him  still ; 
And  though  I  mourn,  not  murmur  at  His  will ; 
I  have  no  cause — an  object  all  divine 
Might  well  grow  weary  of  a  soul  like  mine  ; 
Yet  pity  me,  great  God  !  forlorn,  alone, 
Heartless  and  hopeless,  Life  and  Love  all  gone. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


631 


THE  LOVE  OF  GOD,  THE  END  OF  LIFE. 


SINCE  life  in  sorrow  must  be 
spent, 

So  be  it — I  am  well  content, 

And  meekly  wait  my  last  re- 
move, 

Seeking  only  growth  in  Love. 

No  bliss  I  seek,  but  to  fulfil 

In    life,  in    death,    Thy    lovely 

will ; 

No  succors  in  my  woes  I  want, 
Save  what  Thou  art  pleased  to 

grant. 


Our  days  are  numbered,  let  us 

spare 
Our  anxious  hearts  a   needless 

care: 
'Tis  thine   to   number   out  our 

days  ; 
Ours  to  give  them  to  Thy  praise. 

Love  is  our  only  business  here, 
Love,     simple,     constant,     and 

sincere ; 

O  blessed  days,  thy  servants  see  I 
Spent,    O    Lord  I     in     pleasing 

Thee. 


LOVE  PURE  AND  FERVENT. 


JEALOUS,  and  with  Love  o'er- 

flowing. 

God  demands  a  fervent  heart; 
Grace  and  bounty  still  bestow- 
ing, 
Calls  us  to  a  grateful  part. 

Oh,  then,  with  supreme  affection 
His  paternal  will  regard  ! 

If  it  cost  us  some  dejection, 
Every  sigh  has  its  reward. 


Perfect  Love  has  power  to  soften 
Cares   that   might   our   peace 

destroy, 
Nay,     does    more  —  transforms 

them  often, 
Changing  sorrow  into  joy. 

Sovereign    Love    appoints     the 

measure, 

And  the  number  of  our  pains; 
And   is   pleased    when   we    find 

pleasure 
In  the  trials  He  ordains. 


THE  ENTIRE  SURRENDER. 


PEACE  has  unveiled  her  smiling 
face, 

And  woos  thy  soul  to  her  em- 
brace, [frain 

Enjoyed    with   ease,  if  thou  re- 

From  earthly  Love,  else  sought 
in  vain  ; 

She  dwells  with  all  who  truth 
prefer, 

But  seeks  not  them  who  eeek 
not  her. 


Yield   to  the  Lord,  with  simple 

heart, 
All  that  thou  hast,  and  all  thou 

art ; 
Renounce      all      strength     but 

strength  divine  ; 
And    peace     shall     be     forever 

thine  5 
Behold  the  path  which  I  have 

trod, 
My  path,  till  I  go  home  to  God. 


632 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE  PERFECT  SACRIFICE. 


j[  PLACE  an  offering  at  thy 
shrine, 

From  taint  and  blemish  clear, 
Simple  and  pure  in  its  design, 

Of  all  that  1  hold  dear. 

I  yield  thee  back  thy  gifts  again, 
Thy  gifts  which  most  I  prize  ; 

Desirous  only  to  retain 
The  notice  of  Thine  eyes. 


But  if,  by  Thine  adored  decree, 
That  blessing  be  denied  ; 

Resigned,  and  unreluctant,  see 
My  every  wish  subside. 

Thy  will  in  all  things  I  appro  re 
Exalted  or  cast  down ! 

Thy  will  in  every  state  I  love, 
And  even  in  thy  frown. 


GOD  HIDES  HIS  PEOPLE. 


To  lay  the  soul  that  loves  him 
low, 

Becomes  the  Only  Wise  : 
To  hide,  beneath  a  veil  of  woe, 

The  children  of  the  skies. 

Man,  though  a  worm,  would  yet 

be  great  ; 
Though    feeble,    would    seem 

strong  ; 

Assumes  an  independent  state, 
By  sacrilege  and  wrong. 

Strange  the  reverse,  which,  once 
abased, 

The  haughty  creature  proves  1 
He  feels  his  soul  a  barren  waste, 

Nor  dares  affirm  he  loves. 

Scorned  by  the  thoughtless  and 
the  vain, 

To  God  he  presses  near ; 
Superior  to  the  world's  disdain, 

And  happy  in  its  sneer. 

Oh  welcome,  in  his  heart  he  says, 

Humility  and  shame  ! 
Farewell   the  wish  for    human 

praise, 
„  The  music  of  a  name  I 


But  will  not  scandal  mar  the 

good 

That  I  might  else  perform  ? 
And   can   God    work  it,   if    He 

would, 
By  so  despised  a  worm  ? 

Ah,  vainly  anxious  ! — leave  the 

Lord 

To  rule  thee,  and  dispose  ; 
Sweet   is    the   mandate   of    His 

word, 
And  gracious  all  He  does. 

He  draws  from  human  littleness 
His  grandeur  and  renown  ; 

And   generous  hearts   with  joy 

confess 
The  triumph  all  His  own. 

Down    then    with    self-exalting 
thoughts ; 

Thy  faith  and  hope  employ 
To  welcome  all  that  He  allots, 

And  suffer  shame  with  joy. 

No  longer,  then,    thou  wilt  en- 
croach 

On  His  eternal  right ; 
And  He  shall  smile  at  thy  ap- 
proach, 
And  make  thee  His  delight. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON.  633 

SECRETS  OF  DIVINE  LOVE  ARE  TO  BE  KEPT. 

SUN  !  stay  thy  course,  this  moment  stay — 

Suspend  the  o'erflowing  tide  of  day, 

Divulge  not  such  a  Love  as  mine, 

Ah  !  hide  the  mystery  divine  ; 

Lest  man,  who  deems  my  glory  shame 

Should  learn  the  secret  of  my  flame. 

O  Night !  propitious  to  my  views, 
Thy  sable  awning  wide  diffuse ; 
Conceal  alike  my  joy  and  pain, 
Nor  draw  thy  curtain  back  again, 
Though  morning,  by  the  tears  she  shows, 
Seems  to  participate  my  woes. 

Ye  Stars !  whose  faint  and  feeble  fires 

Express  my  languishing  desires, 

Whose  slender  beams  pervade  the  skies 

As  silent  as  my  secret  sighs, 

Those  emanations  of  a  soul, 

That  darts  her  fires  beyond  the  Pole ; 

Your  rays,  that  scarce  assist  the  sight, 
That  pierce,  but  not  displace,  the  night, 
That  shine  indeed,  but  nothing  show 
Of  all  those  various  scenes  below, 
Bring  no  disturbance,  rather  prove 
Incentives  of  a  sacred  Love. 

Thou  Moon  1   whose  nevar-failing  course 

Bespeaks  a  providential  force, 

Go,  tell  the  tidings  of  my  flame 

To  Him  who  calls  tin-  stars  by  name  ; 

Whose  absence  kills,  whose  presence  cheers  : 

Who  blots,  or  brightens,  all  my  years. 

While,  in  the  blue  abyss  of  space, 
Thine  orb  performs  its  rapid  race  ; 
Still  whisper  in  His  listening  ears 
The  language  of  my  sighs  and  tears  ; 
Tell  Him,  I  seek  Him,  far  below, 
Lost  in  a  wilderness  of  woe. 

Ye  thought-composing,  silent  Hours  I 
Diffusing  peace  o'er  all  my  powers  ; 
Friends  of  the  pensive  !  who  conceal, 
In  darkest  shades,  the  flames  I  feel ; 


634  TRANSLA  TIONS 


To  you  I  trust,  and  safely  may, 

The  love  that  wastes  my  strength  away. 

In  sylvan  scenes,  and  caverns  rude, 
I  taste  the  sweets  of  solitude ; 
Retired,  indeed,  but  not  alone, 
I  share  them  with  a  Spouse  unknown, 
Who  hides  me  here,  from  envious  eyes, 
From  all  intrusion  and  surprise. 

Embowering  Shades,  and  Dens  profound ! 

Where  Echo  rolls  the  voice  around  ; 

Mountains  !  whose  elevated  heads, 

A  moist  and  misty  veil  o'erspreads  ; 

Disclose  a  solitary  bride 

To  Him  I  love — to  none  beside. 

Ye  Rills',  that  murmuring  all  the  way, 
Among  the  polished  pebbles  stray  ; 
Creep  silently  along  the  ground, 
Lest,  drawn  by  that  harmonious  sound, 
Same  wanderer,  whom  I  would  not  meet 
Should  stumble  on  my  loved  retreat. 

Enamelled  Meads,  and  Hillocks  green, 
And  streams  that  water  all  the  scene ! 
Ye  torrents,  loud  in  distant  ears  ! 
Ye  Fountains,  that  receive  my  tears ! 
Ah  !  still  conceal,  with  caution  due, 
A  charge  I  trust  with  none  but  you. 

If,  when  my  pain  and  grief  increase, 
I  seem  to  enjoy  the  sweetest  peace, 
It  is  because  I  find  so  fair 
The  charming  object  of  my  care, 
That  I  can  sport  and  pleasure  make 
Of  torment  suffered  for  His  sake. 

Ye  Meads  and  Groves,  unconscious  things ! 
Ye  know  not  whence  my  pleasure  springs  j 
Ye  know  not,  and  ye  cannot  know, 
The  source  from  which  my  sorrows  flow  i 
The  dear  sole  Cause  of  all  I  feel, — 
He  knows,  and  understands  them  welL 

Ye  Deserts  !  where  the  wild  beasts  rore, 
Scenes  sacred  to  my  hours  of  love  ; 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON.  63$ 


Ye  Forests  !  in  whose  shades  I  stray, 
Benighted  under  burning  day  I 
Ah  !  whisper  not  how  blest  am  I, 
Nor  while  I  live,  nor  when  I  die. 

Ye  Lambs  1  who  sport  beneath  these  shades. 

And  bound  along  the  mossy  glades  ; 

Be  taught  a  salutary  fear, 

And  cease  to  bleat  when  I  am  near : 

The  wolf  may  hear  your  harmless  cry, 

Whom  ye  should  dread  as  much  as  I. 

How  calm,  amid  these  scenes,  my  mind  ! 

How  perfect  is  the  peace  I  find ! 

Oh  !  hush,  be  still,  my  every  part, 

My  tongue,  my  pulse,  my  beating  heart  I 

That  Love,  aspiring  to  its  cause, 

May  suffer  not  a  moment's  pause. 

Ye  swift-firmed  Nations,  that  abide 
In  seas,  as  fathomless  as  wide ; 
And  unsuspicious  of  a  snare, 
Pursue  at  large  your  pleasures  there  : 
Poor  sportive  fools  I  how  soon  does  man 
Your  heedless  ignorance  trepan  I 

Away !  dive  deep  into  the  brine, 
Where  never  yet  sunk  plummet  line ; 
Trust  me,  the  vast  leviathan 
Is  merciful,  compared  with  man  ; 
Avoid  his  arts,  forsake  the  beach, 
And  never  play  within  his  reach. 

My  soul  her  bondage  ill  endures  ; 

I  pant  for  liberty  like  yours  ; 

I  long  for  that  immense  profound, 

That  knows  no  bottom  and  no  bound ; 

Lost  in  infinity,  to  prove 

The  incomprehensible  of  Love. 

Ye  Birds  !  that  lessen  as  ye  fly, 
And  vanish  in  the  distant  sky  ; 
To  whom  yon  airy  waste  belongs, 
Resounding  with  your  cheerful  songs  , 
Haste  to  escape  from  human  sight  \ 
Fear  less  the  vulture  and  the  kite. 

How  blest  and  how  secure  am  I, 
When  quitting  earth,  I  soar  on  high  ; 


63  6  TRANSLA  TIONS 


When  lost,  like  you  I  disappear, 
And  float  in  a  sublimer  sphere  ! 
Whence  falling,  within  human  view, 
I  am  ensnared,  and  caught  like  you. 

Omniscient  God,  whose  notice  deigns 
To  try  the  heart  and  search  the  reins  ; 
Compassionate  the  numerous  woes, 
I  dare  not,  even  to  Thee,  disclose ; 
Oh !  save  me  from  the  cruel  hands 
Of  men,  who  fear  not  thy  commands  ! 

Love,  all-subduing  and  divine, 
Care  for  a  creature  truly  Thine  ; 
Reign  in  a  heart,  disposed  to  own 
No  sovereign  but  Thyself  alone ; 
Cherislj  a  Bride  who  cannot  rove. 
Nor  quit  thee  for  a  meaner  Love ! 


THE  VICISSITUDES  EXPERIENCED  IN  THE 

CHRISTIAN  LIFE. 

I  SUFFER  fruitless  anguish  day  by  day, 
Each  moment,  as  it  passes,  marks  my  pain  ; 
Scarce  knowing  whither,  doubtfully  I  stray, 
And  see  no  end  of  all  that  I  sustain. 

The  more  I  strive,  the  more  1  am  withstood, 
Anxiety  increasing  every  hour  ; 
My  spirit  finds  no  rest,  performs  no  good, 
And  naught  remains  of  all  my  former  power. 

My  peace  of  heart  is  fled,  I  know  not  where  ; 
My  happy  hours,  like  shadows,  passed  away ; 
Their  sweet  remembrance  doubles  all  my  care, 
Night  darker  seems,  succeeding  such  a  day. 

Dear  faded  joys,  and  impotent  regret, 
What  profit  is  there  in  incessant  tears? 
O  thou,  whom  once  beheld,  we  ne'er  forget, 
Reveal  thy  love,  and  banish  all  my  fears  I 

Alas !  He  flies  me — treats  me  as  his  foe, 
"Views  not  my  sorrows,  hears  not  when  I  plead ; 
Woe  such  as  mine,  despised,  neglected  woe, 
Unless  it  shortens  life,  is  vain  indeed. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON.  637 

Pierced  with  a  thousand  wounds,  I  yet  survive  ; 
My  pangs  are  keen,  but  no  complaint  transpires; 
And,  while  in  terrors  of  thy  wrath  1  live, 
Hell  seems  to  lose  its  less  tremendous  fires. 

Has  Hell  a  pain  I  would  not  gladly  bear, 
So  thy  severe  displeasure  might  subside  ? 
Hopeless  of  ease,  I  seem  already  there, 
My  life  extinguished,  and  yet  death  denied. 

Is  this  the  joy  so  promised — this  the  Love, 
The  unchanging  Love,  so  sworn  in  better  days  ? 
Ah  !  dangerous  glories  !  show  me,  but  to  prove 
How  lovely  Thou,  and  I  how  rash  to  gaze. 

Why  did  I  see  them  ?  had  I  still  remained 
Untaught,  still  ignorant  how  fair  Thou  art, 
My  humbler  wishes  1  had  soon  obtained, 
Nor  known  the  torments  of  a  doubting  heart. 

Deprived  of  all,  yet  feeling  no  desires, 
Whence  then,  I  cry,  the  pangs  that  I  sustain  ? 
Dubious  and  uninformed,  my  soul  inquires, 
Ought  she  to  cherish,  or  shake  off  her  pain. 

Suffering,  I  suffer  not — sincerely  love, 
Yet  feel  no  touch  of  that  enlivening  flame  ; 
As  chance  inclines  me,  unconcerned  I  move, 
All  times,  and  all  events,  to  me  the  same. 

I  search  my  heart,  and  not  a  wish  is  there, 
But  burns  with  zeal  that  hatred  Self  may  fall ; 
Such  is  the  sad  disquietude  I  share, 
A  sea  of  doubts  and  Self  the  source  of  all. 

I  ask  not  life,  nor  do  I  wish  to  die ; 
And,  if  thine  hand  accomplish  not  my  cure, 
I  would  not  purchase,  with  a  single  sigh, 
A  free  discharge  from  all  that  I  endure. 

I  groan  in  chains,  yet  want  not  a  release  , 

Am  sick  and  know  not  the  distempered  part ; 

Am  just  as  void  of  purpose  as  of  peace  ; 

Have  neither  plan,  nor  fear,  nor  hope,  nor  heart. 

My  claim  to  life,  though  sought  with  earnest  care, 
No  light  within  me,  or  without  me,  shows  ; 
Once  1  had  faith,  but  now  in  self-despair 
r*\y  chief  cordial,  and  my  best  repose. 


638  TRANSLA  TIONS 


My  soul  is  a  forgotten  thing ;  she  sinks, 
Sinks  and  is  lost,  without  a  wish  to  rise  ; 
Feels  an  indifference  she  abhors,  arid  thinks 
Her  name  erased  forever  from  the  skies. 

Language  affords  not  my  distress  a  name, — 
Yet  is  it  real,  and  no  sickly  dream ; 
'Tis  love  inflicts  it ;  though  to  feel  that  flame 
Is  all  I  know  of  happiness  supreme. 

When  Love  departs,  a  chaos  wide  and  vast, 
And  dark  as  Hell,  is  opened  in  the  soul ; 
When  Love  returns,  the  gloomy  scene  is  past, 
No  tempests  shake  her,  and  no  fears  control. 

Then  tell  me  why  these  ages  of  delay  ? 

0  Love !  all  excellent  once  more  appear ; 
Disperse  the  shades,  and  snatch  me  into  day, 
From  this  abyss  of  night,  these  floods  of  fear  ! 

No — Love  is  angry,  will  not  now  endure 

A  sigh  of  mine,  or  suffer  a  complaint ; 

He  smites  me,  wounds  me,  and  withholds  the  cure  ; 

Exhausts  my  powers,  and  leaves  me  sick  and  faint. 

He  wounds,  and  hides  the  hand  that  gave  the  blow  ; 
He  flies,  he  reappears,  and  wounds  again  — 
Was  ever  heart  that  loved  Thee  treated  so  ? 
Yet  I  adore  Thee,  though  it  seem  in  vain. 

And  wilt  Thou  leave  me,  whom,  when  lost  and  blind 
Thou  didst  distinguish,  and  vouchsafe  to  choose, 
Before  Thy  laws  were  written  in  my  mind, 
While  yet  the  world  had  all  my  thoughts  and  views. 

Now  leave  me  ?  when  enamoured  of  Thy  laws. 

1  make  Thy  glory  my  supreme  delight ; 
Now  blot  me  from  Thy  register,  and  cause 
A  faithful  soul  to  perish  from  Thy  sight  ? 

What  can  have  caused  the  change  which  I  deplore  ? 
Is  it  to  prove  me  if  my  heart  be  true  ? 
Permit  me  then,  while  prostrate  I  adore, 
To  draw,  and  place  its  picture  in  Thy  view. 

'Tis  Thine  without  reserve,  most  simply  Thine  ; 

So  given  to  Thee,  that  it  is  not  my  own  ; 

A  willing  captive  of  Thy  grace  divine  ; 

And  loves,  and  seeks  Thee,  for  Thyself  alone. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


639 


Pain  cannot  move  it,  danger  cannot  scare  ; 
Pleasure  and  wealth,  in  its  esteem  are  dust; 
It  loves  Thee,  even  when  least  inclined  to  spare 
Its  tenderest  feelings,  and  avows  Thee  just. 

'Tis  all  Thine  own  ;  niy  spirit  is  so  too, 
An  undivided  offering  at  Thy  shrine  j 
It  seeks  thy  glory  with  no  double  view, 
Thy  glory  with  no  secret  bent  to  mine. 

Love,  Holy  Love  I  and  art  Thou  not  severe, 
To  slight  me,  thus  devoted,  and  thus  fixed  ? 
Mine  is  an  everlasting  ardor,  clear 
From  all  self-bias,  generous  and  unmixed. 

But  I  am  silent,  seeing  what  I  see— 
And  fear,  Avith  cause,  that  I  am  self-deceived  ; 
Not  even  my  faith  is  from  suspicion  free, 
And,  that  I  love,  seems  not  to  be  believed. 

Live  Thou,  and  reign  forever,  Glorious  Lord  I 
My  last,  least  offering,  I  pre>ent  Thee  now  — 
Renounce  me,  leave  me,  and  be  still  adored! 
Slay  me,  my  God,  and  I  applaud  the  blow. 


WATCHING  UNTO  GOD  IN  THE  NIGHT  SEASON. 


SLEEP  at  last  has  fled  these  eyes, 
Nor  do  I  regret  his  flight, 
More  alert  my  spirits  rise, 
And  my  heart  is  free  and  light. 

Nature  silent  all  around, 
Not  a  single  witness  near ; 
God  as  soon  as  sought  is  found  ; 
And   the   flame   of  Love   burns 
clear. 

Interruption,  all  day  long, 
Checks  the  current  01  my  joys  ; 
Creatures  press  me  with  a  throng, 
And  perplex  me  with  their  noise. 

Undisturbed  I  muse  all  night, 
On  the  first  Eternal  Fair  ; 
Nothing  there  obstructs  delight, 
Love  is  renovated  there. 
Life,  with  its  perpetual  stir, 
Proves  a  foe  to  Love  and  me  ; 


Fresh  rut  an gl entente  occur — 
Comes  the  night  and  sets  me  free. 

Never  more,  sweet  sleep,  suspend 
My  enjoyments,  always  new  : 
Leave  me  to  possess  my  friend  ; 
Other  eyes  and  hearts  subdue. 

Hush  the  world,  that  I  may  wakt 
To  the  taste  of  pure  delights  ; 
Oh  !  the  pleasures  I  partake - 
God,  the  partner  of  my  nights ! 

David,  for  the  self-same  cause, 
Night  preferred  to  busy  day  ; 
Hearts  whom   heavenly   beau 

draws 
Wish  the  glaring  sun  away. 

Sleep,  self-lovers,  is  for  you- 
Souls  that  love  celestial  know, 
Fairer  scenes  by  night  can  view 
Than  the  sun  could  ever  show. 


640 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


ON  THE  SAME. 


SEASON  of  my  purest  pleasure, 

Sealer  of  observing  eyes  ! 
When,  in  larger,  freer  measure, 

I  can  commune  with  the  skies; 
While,  beneath  thy   shade   ex- 
tended, 

Weary  man  forgets  his  woes  ; 
I,  my  daily  trouble  ended, 

Fiiii,  in  watching,  my  repose. 

Silence  all  around  prevailing, 
Nature    hushed    in    slumber 

sweet, 

No  rude  noise  my  ears  assailing, 
Now  my  God  and  I  can  meet : 
Universal  nature  slumbers, 
And   my    soul    partakes    the 

calm, 

Breathes  her  ardor  out  in  num- 
bers, 
Plaintive  song  or  lofty  psalm. 

Now  my  passion,  pure  and  holy, 
Shines  and  burns  without  re- 
straint ; 
Which   the   day's    fatigue    and 

folly 
Cause  to  languish,  dim    and 

faint : 

Charming  hours  of  relaxation  ! 
How   I   dread    the    ascending 

sun  ! 
Surely,  idle  conversation 

Is  an  evil,  matched  by  none. 

Worldly  prate  and  babble  hurt 
me ; 

Unintelligible  prove  ; 
Neither  teach  me  nor  divert  me; 

I  have  ears  for  none  but  Love. 
Me  they  rude  esteem ,,and  foolish, 

Hearing  my  absurd  replies  ; 
I  have  neither  art's  fine  polish, 

Nor  the  knowledge  of  the  wise. 


Sample  souls,  and  unpolluted, 

By  conversing  with  the  great, 
Have  a  mind  and  taste,  ill  suited 

To  their  dignity  and  state  ; 
All  their  talking,  reading,  writ- 
ing, 

Are  but  talents  misapplied  ; 
Infants'  prattle  I  delight  in, 

Nothing  human  choose  beside. 

'Tis  the  secret  fear  of  sinning 
Checks  my  tongue,  or  I  should 


When  I  see  the  night  beginning, 

I  am  glad  of  parting  day  ; 
Love  this  gentle  admonition 
Whispers     soft      within     my 

breast  ; 
"  Choice   befits  not  thy   condi- 

tion, 
Acquiescence  suits  thee  best." 

Henceforth,      the     repose     and 

pleasure 

Night  affords  me  I  resign  j 
And    thy     will     shall     be     the 

measure, 

Wisdom  infinite,  of  mine  : 
Wishing  is  but  inclination 

Quarrelling  with  thy  decrees  ; 
Wayward  nature  finds   the  oc- 

casion — 
'Tis  her  folly  and  disease. 

Night,   with  its  sublime  enjoy- 

ments, 

Now  no  longer  will  I  choose  ; 
Nor  the  day    with  its    employ- 

ments, 

Irksome  as  they  seem,  refuse; 
Lessons  of  a  god's  inspiring 
Neither  time   nor    place    im* 

pedes  ; 

From  our  wishing  and  desiring 
Our  unhappiness  proceeds. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


64I 


ON  THE  SAME. 


NIGHT  !  how  I  love  thy  silent 

shades, 

My  spirits  they  compose  ; 
The  bliss  of  heaven  uiy  soul  per- 
vades, 

In  spite  of  all  my  woes. 
While    sleep  instils  her    poppy 

dews 

In  every  slumbering  eye, 
I  watch,  to  meditate  and  muse, 
In  blest  tranquillity. 

And  when  I  feel  a  God  immense 

Familiarly  impart, 
With  every   proof  lie  can   dis- 
pense, 

His  favor  to  my  heart ; 

My  native  meanness  I  lament, 
Though  IIIO^T  divinely  filled 

With  all  the  ineffable  content 
That  Deity  can  yield. 

His  purpose  and  His  course  11« 

keeps  ; 

Treads     all     my     reasoning 
down  ;  [deeps, 

Commands   me  out  of  Nature's 
And  hides  me  in  His  own. 

When  in   the   dust,    its    proper 
place, 

Our  pride  of  heart  we  lay, 
'Tis  then  a  deluge  of  His  grace 

Bears  all  our  sins  away. 


Thou  whom  I  serve,  and  whose 

I  am, 

Whose  influence  from  on  high 
Refines,    and   still     refines     my 

flame, 
And  makes  my  fetters  fly. 

How  wretched  is  the  creature's 

state 
Who    thwarts    Thy    gracious 

power ; 
Crushed   under  sin's   enormous 

weight, 
Increasing  every  hour  ! 

The  night,  when   passed  entire 

with  thee, 

How  luminous  and  clear! 
Then  sleep  has  no  delights  for 

me, 
Lest  Thou  shouldst  disappear. 

Saviour!  occupy  me  still 
In  this  secure  recess  j 
Let  Reason  slumhrr  if  she  will, 
My  joy  shall  not  be  less  : 

Let    Reason    slumber    out    the 

night; 

But  if  Thou  deign  to  make 
My  soul  the  abode  of  truth  and 

light, 
Ah,  keep  my  heart  ^w 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  CROSS. 


plunged  in  sorrow,  I  resign 
My   soul   to   that  dear  hand  of 

thine, 

Without  reserve  or  fear  ; 
That  hand  shall  wipe  my  stream- 
ing eyes ; 


Or  into  smiles  of  glad  surprise 
Transform  the  falling  tear. 

My  sole  possession  is  Thy  Love  ; 
In    earth    beneath,    or    heaven 
above, 


642 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


I  have  no  other  store  ; 
And  though  with  fervent  suit  I 
pray;  [day, 

And  importune  Thee  night  and 

I  ask  Thee  nothing  more. 

My    rapid    hours     pursue    the 

course 
Prescribed      ^hem      by     Love's 

sweetest  force  ; 
And  I  Thy  sovereign  will, 
Without  a   wish  to  escape  my 
doom ;  [womb, 

Though  still  a  sufferer  from  the 
And  doomed  to  suffer  still. 

By  Thy    command,  where'er  I 

stray, 
Sorrow  attends  me  all  my  way, 

A  never-failing  friend  ; 
And   if  my  sufferings  may  aug- 
ment [tent — 
Thy  praise  behold  me  well  con- 
Let  Sorrow  still  attend  1 

It  costs  me  no  regret,  that  she, 
Who    followed    Christ,    should 

follow  me  ; 

And  though  where'er  she  goes, 
Thorns   spring  spontaneous    at 

her  feet, 

I  love  her,  and  extract  a  sweet 
From  all  my  bitter  woes. 

Adieu  !  ye  vain  delights  of  earth  ; 
Insipid  sports  and  childish  mirth, 

I  taste  no  sweets  in  you  ; 
Unknown    delights    are  in  the 

Cross, 
All  joy  beside  to  me  is  dross  ; 

And  Jesus  thought  so  too. 

The  Cross  !     O  ravishment  and 

bliss  ! 
How  grateful  even  its  anguish  is  ; 


Its  bitterness  how  sweet  I 
There  every  sense,  and  all 

mind, 
In  all  her  faculties  refined, 

Tastes  happiness  complete. 

Souls  once  enabled  to  disdain 
Base  sublunary  joys,  maintain 

Their  dignity  secure  ; 
The  fever  of  desire  is  passed, 
And   Love   has  all   its   genuine 
taste, 

Is  delicate  and  pure. 

Self-love  no  grace  in  sorrow  sees, 
Consults  her  own  peculiar  ease  ; 

'Tis  all  the  bliss  she  knows  : 
But  nobler  aims  true  Love  em- 

ploys ; 
In  self-denial  is  her  joy, 

In  suffering  her  repose. 

Sorrow  and  Love  go  side  by  side; 
Nor  height   nor  depth  can  e'er 

divide 

Their  heaven-appointed  bands  ; 
Those   dear   associates  still   are 

one, 

Nor,  till  the  race  of  life  is  run, 
Disjoin  their  wedded  hands. 

Jesus,  avenger  of  our  fall, 
Thou  faithful  Lover,  above  all 

The  Cross  has  ever  borne  ! 
Oh  tell  me,  —  life  is  in  Thy  voice-^ 
How  much  afflictions  were  Thj 
choice, 

And  sloth  and  ease  Thj^  scorn  ! 


Thy  choice  and  mine  shall  he  the 

same, 
Inspirer  of  that  holy  flame 

Which  must  forever  blaze  : 
To   take   the  Cross  and   follow 
Thee,  [be 

Where  Love  and  Duty  lead,  shall 
My  portion  and  my  praise. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


JOY  IN  MARTYRDOM. 


SWEET  tenants  of  this  grove  ! 

Who  sing  without  design, 
A  song  of  artless  love, 

In  unison  with  mine : 
These  echoing  shades  return 

Full  many  a  note  of  ours, 
That  wise  ones  cannot  learn, 

With  all  their  boasted  powers. 

O  Thou  !  whose  sacred  charms 
These  hearts  so  seldom  love, 

Although  thy  beauty  warms 
And  blesses  all  above  ; 


How  slow  are  human  things, 
To  choose  their  happiest  lot ; 

All-glorious  King  of  kings, 
Say  why  we  love  thee  riot? 

This  heart,  that  cannot  rest, 

Shall  thine  for  ever  prove  ; 
Though  bleeding  and  distressed 

Yet  joyful  in  thy  love  ; 
'Tis  happy,  though  it  l>real.> 

Beneath  thy  chastening  hand; 
And  speechless,  yet  it  speaks 

What  thou  canst  understand. 


SIMPLE  TRUST. 


STILL,  still,  without  ceasing, 

I  feel  it  increasing, 
This  fervor  of  holy  desire  ; 

And  often  exclaim, 

Let  me  die  in  the  flame 
Cf  a  Love  that  can  never  expire  ! 


Had  1  words  to  explain 
What  she  must  sustain 
Who  dies  to   the  world  and 


its 


wa.vs 


How  joy  and  affright, 
Distress  and  delight, 
Alternately  chequer  her  days  j 


Thou,  sweetly  severe  1 

I  would  make  Thee  appear, 

In    all    Thou     art     pleased     to 

award, 

Not  more  in  the  sweet, 
Than  the  bitter  I  meet, 

My  tender  and  merciful  Lord. 

This  Faith,  in  the  dark 

Pursuing  its  mark, 
Through   many  sharp   trials   of 
Love; 

Is  the  sorrowful  waste 

That  is  to  be  passed 
In  the  way  to  the  Canaan  above. 


THE  NECESSITY  OF  SELF-ABASEMENT. 


Sni  iUK     <>f  Love,    my    brighter 

Sun, 

Thou  alone  my  comfort  art ; 
See,  my  race  is  almost  run  ; 
Hast  Thou  left  this    trembling 

heart? 

In  my  youth  thy  charming  eyes 
Drew  me  from  the  ways  of  men  ; 
Then  I  drank  unmingled  joys  ; 
Frown  of  thine  saw  never  then. 


Spouse  of   Christ    was   then   my 

name  ; 

And  devoted  all  to  thee, 
Strangely  jealous,  I  became 
Jealous  of  this  Self  in  me. 

Thee  to  love,  and  none  beside, 
Was  my  darling,  sole  employ  ; 
While  alternately  I  died, 
Now  of  grief,  and  now  of  joy. 


644 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


Through    the    dark  and   silent 

night 

On  Thy  radiant  smiles  I  dwelt ; 
And  to  see  the  dawning  light 
Was  the  keenest  pain  I  felt. 

Thou  my  gracious  teacher  wert  j 
And  Thine  eye,  so  close  applied 
While    it  watched  Thy  pupil's 

i     heart, 
Seemed  to  look  at  none  beside. 

Conscious  of  no  evil  drift, 
This,  I  cried,  is  Love  indeed — 
'Tis  the  giver,  not  the  gift, 
Whence  the  joys  I  feel  proceed. 

But  soon  humbled,  and  laid  low, 
Stripped  of  all  Thou  hast  con- 
ferred, 

Nothing  left  but  sin  and  woe, 
I  perceived  how  I  had  erred. 

Oh,  the  vain  conceit  of  man, 
Dreaming  of  a  good  his  own, 


Arrogating  all  he  can, 

Though  the  Lord  is  good  alone  1 

He  the  graces  Thou  hast  wrought 
Makes  subservient  to  his  pride  \ 
Ignorant,  that  one  such  thought 
Passes  all  his  sin  beside. 

Such  his  folly — proved,  at  last, 
By  the  loss  of  that  repose 
Self-complacence  cannot  taste, 
Only  Love  Divine  bestows. 

'Tis  by  this  reproof  severe, 
And  by  this  reproof  alone, 
His  defects  at  last  appear, 
Man  is  to  himself  made  known. 

Learn,   all   Earth  1    that   feeble 

man, 

Sprung  from  this  terrestrial  clod, 
Nothing  is,  and  nothing  can  ; 
Life  and  power  are  all  in  God. 


LOVE  INCREASED  BY  SUFFERING. 


"  I  LOVE  the  Lord,"  is  still  the 

strain 

This  heart  delights  to  sing ; 
But  I   reply— "  Your    thoughts 

are  vain, 
Perhaps  'tis  no  such  thing." 

Before  the  power  of  Love  Divine 

Creation  fades  away  ; 
Till  only  God  is  seen  to  shine 

In  all  that  we  survey. 

In  gulfs  of  awful  night  we  find 
The  God  of  our  desires  ; 

'Tis  there  he  stamps  the  yielding 

mind, 
And  doubles  all  its  fires. 

Flames  of  encircling  Love  invest, 
And  pierce  it  sweetly  through: 


'Tis  filled   with   sacred  joy,  yet 

pressed 
With  sacred  sorrow  too. 

Ah  Love!  my  heart  is   in   the 
right — 

Amidst  a  thousand  woes, 
To  Thee,  its  ever  new  delight, 

And  all  its  peace,  it  owes. 

Fresh  causes  of  distress  occur 
Where'er  I  look  or  move  ; 

The  comforts  I  to  all  prefer 
Are  Solitude  and  Love. 

Nor  exile  I  nor  prison  fear ; 

Love  makes  my  courage  great \ 
I  find  a  Saviour  everywhere, 

His  grace  in  every  state. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  MADAME  GUYON. 


Nor  castle  walls,  nor  dungeons 

deep, 

Exclude  His  quickening  beams  ; 
There  I  can  sit.    and   sing,  and 

weep, 
And  dwell  on  heavenly  themes. 

There  sorrow,   for   His    sake,  is 

found 

A  joy  I )*»yond  compare  ; 
There  no  presumptuous  thoughts 

abound, 
No  pride  can  enter  there. 


A  Saviour  doubles  all  my  joys, 
And  sweetens  all  my  pains, 

His  strength  in  my  defence  em- 
ploys, 
Consoles  me  and  sustains. 


I  fear  no  ill,  resent  no  wrong, 
Nor  feel  a  passion  move, 

When  Malice  whets  her  slander- 
ous tongue ; 
Such  patience  is  in  Love. 


SCENES  FAVORABLE  TO  MEDITATION. 

WILDS  horrid  and  dark  with  o'ershadowing  trees, 

Rocks  that  ivy  and  briers  enfold, 
Scenes  Nature  with  dread  and  astonishment  sees, 

But  I  with  a  pleasure  untold. 

Though  awfully  silent,  and  shaggy  and  rude, 
I  am  charmed  with  the  peace  ye  afford, 

Your  shades  are  a  temple  where  none  will  intrude, 
The  abode  of  my  Lover  and  Lord. 

I  am  sick  of  thy  splendor,  O  fountain  of  day, 

And  here  I  am  hid  from  its  beams, 
Here  safely  contemplate  a  brighter  display 

Of  the  noblest  and  holiest  themes. 

Ye  forests,  that  yield  me  my  sweetest  repose, 

Where  stillness  and  solitude  reign, 
To  you  I  securely  and  boldly  disclose 

The  dear  anguish  of  which  I  complain. 

Here  sweetly  forgetting,  and  wholly  forgot 
By  the  world  and  its  turbulent  throng, 

The  birds  and  the  streams  lend  me  many  a  note 
That  aids  meditation  and  song. 

Here  wandering  in  scenes  that  are  sacred  to-night, 

Love  wears  me  and  wastes  me  away, 
And  often  the  sun  has  spent  much  of  its  light 

Ere  yet  I  perceive  it  is  day. 


646 


TRANSLA  TIONS 


While  a  mantle  of  darkness  envelopes  the  sphere. 

My  sorrows  are  safely  rehearsed, 
To  me  the  dark  hours  are  equally  dear, 

And  the  last  is  as  sweet  as  the  first. 

Here  I  and  the  beasts  of  the  desert  agree, 

Mankind  are  the  wolves  that  I  fear, 
They  grudge  me  my  natural  right  to  be  free, 

But  nobody  questions  it  here. 

Though  little  is  found  in  this  dreary  abode 

That  appetite  wishes  to  find, 
My  spirit  is  soothed  by  the  presence  of  God, 

And  appetite  wholly  resigned. 

Ye  desolate  scenes,  to  your  solitude  led, 

My  life  I  in  praises  employ, 
And  scarce  know  the  source  of  the  tears  that  I  shed, 

Proceed  they  from  sorrow  or  joy. 

There  is  nothing  I  seem  to  have  skill  to  discern, 

I  feel  out  my  way  in  the  dark  j 
Love  reigns  in  my  bosom,  I  constantly  burn, 

Yet  hardly  distinguish  the  spark. 

I  live,  yet  I  seem  to  myself  to  be  dead, 

Such  a  riddle  is  not  to  be  found ; 
I  am  nourished  without  knowing  how  I  am  fed, 

I  have  nothing,  and  yet  I  abound. 

O  Love,  who  in  darkness  art  pleased  to  abide  ! 

Though  dimly  yet  surely  I  see, 
That  these  contrarieties  only  reside 

In  the  soul  that  is  chosen  of  Thee. 

Ah !  send  me  not  back  to  the  race  of  mankind, 

Perversely  by  folly  beguiled, 
For  where,  in  the  crowds  I  have  left,  shall  I  find 

The  spirit  and  heart  of  a  child. 

Here  let  me,  though  fixed  in  a  desert,  be  free  ; 

A  little  one  whom  they  despise, 
Though  lost  to  the  world,  if  in  union  with  Thee, 

Shall  be  holy  and  happy  and  wise. 


FROM  THE  FABLES  OF  GA  Y.  647 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  THE  FABLES  OF  GAY.  . 

LEPUS  MULTIS  AMICIS. 

Lusus  amicitia  est,  uni  nisi,  dedita,  ceu  fit, 

Simplice  ni  nexus  foedere,  lusus  amor. 
Inoerto  genitore  puer,  non  s»pe  paternse 

Tutainen  novit,  deliciasque  domus : 
Quique  sibi  fidos  fore  mult<>-  >perat,  amicus, 

Miruin  est  huic  misero  H  ft»rat  ullusopem. 
Comis  erat,  mitisque,  et  nolle,  et  velle  paratus 

Cum  quovis,  Gaii  more  UK ><!<>( pus  Lepus. 
Ille,  quot  in  sylvis  et  quot  spatianTur  in  agris 

Quadrupedes,  norat  conciliare  sibi ; 
Et  quisque  innocuo,  invitoque  lacessere  quenquam 

Labra  tenus  saltern  fid  us  am  in  is  erat. 
Ortum  sub  lucis  dum  preasa  mbilia  linquit, 

Rorantes  h«>rba*,  pabula  SMI»TU.  pftcns, 
Venatoruin  audit  clangores  poni  sequentem, 

Fuhnineumque  soinini  territn-  t-rro  fugit. 
Corda  pavor  pulsat,  sursum  se<lit.  «TiVrit  aures, 

Respicit,  et  sentit  jam  pmpe  adesse  necem. 
Utque  canes  fallat  late  circum vagus,  illuc, 

Unde  abiit,  mira  calliditatf  n-dit  ; 
Viribus  at  fractis  tandem  se  projit-it  ultro 

In  media  miserum  semianimemque  via. 
Vix  ibi  stratus,  equi  son  it  inn  pod  is  audit,  et,  oh  spe 

Quam  Iteta  adventu  cor  agitatur  equi ! 
Dorsum  (iiicpiit;  mlhi,  chare,  tuum  concede,  tuoque 

Auxilio  nares  fallere,  viiiKjue  cantim. 
Me  meus,  ut  nnsti.  p«i>T  prodit  —  lidus  aniicus 

Fert  quodcunque  lubens,  nee  grave  sentit,  onus. 
Belle  misselle  lepuscule  (equus  respondet)  amara, 

Omnia  quae  tibi  sunt,  sunt  et  amara  mihi. 
Verum  age — sume  animos — multi,  me  pone,  bonique 

Adveniunt,  quorum  sis  cito  salvusope. 
Proximus  arinenti  dominus  bos  solicitatu^- 

Auxilium  his  verbis  se  dare  posse  negat. 
Quando  quadrupedum,  quot  vivunt,  nullus  amicum 

Me  nescire  potest  usque  fuisse  tibi, 
labertate  aequus,  quam  cedit  amicus  amico, 

Utar,  et  absque  metu  ne  tibi  displiceam  ; 
Hinc  me  mandat  amor.     Juxta  istum  messis  acervum 

Me  mea,  prae  cunctis  chara,  juvenca  manet ; 


648  TRANSLA  TIONS 


Et  quis  non  ultro  quaecunque  riegotia  linquit, 

Pareat  ut  domina?,  cum  vocat  ipsa  suae  ? 
Neu  me  crudelem  dicas — discedo — sed  hircus, 

Cujus  ope  effugias  integer,  hircus  adest. 
Febreni  (ait  hircus)  habes.     Heu,  sicca  et  lumina  languent  1 

Utque  caput,  collo  deficierite,  jacet ! 
Hirsutum  mihi  tergum  \  et  forsan  laeserit  aegrum, 

Vellere  eris  rnelius  fultus,  ovisque  venit. 
Me  mihi  feck;  onus  natura,  ovis  inquit,  anhelans 

Sustineo  lanae  pondera  tanta  meae  ; 
Me  nee  volocem  nee  fortem  jacto,  solentque 

Nos  etiam  saevi  dilacerare  canes. 
TJltimus  accedit  vitulus,  vitulumque  precatur, 

Et  periturum  alias  ocyus  eripiat. 
Remne  ego,  respondet  vitulus,  suscepero  tantam, 

Non  depulsus  adhuc  ubere,  natus  heri 
Te,  quern  maturi  canibus  validique  relinquunt. 

Incolumem  potero  reddere  parvus  ego  ? 
Prseterea  tollens  quein  illi  aversantur,  amicis 

Forte  paruin  videar  consuluisse  meis. 
Ignoscas  oro.     Fidissima  dissociantur 

Corda,  et  tale  tibi  sat  liquet  esse  ineum. 
Ecce  autem  ad  calces  canis  est !  te  quanta  perempto 

Tristitia  est  nobis  ingruitura ! — Vale  1 


AVARUS  ET  PLUTUS. 

ICTA  fenestra  Euri  flatu  stridebat,  avarus 

Ex  somno  trepidus  surgit,  opumque  memor. 
Lata  silenter  humi  ponit  vestigia,  quemque 

Respicit  ad  sonitum  respiciensque  tremit ; 
Angustissima  quaeque  foramina  lampade  visit, 

Ad  vectes,  obices,  fertque  refertque  manum. 
Dem  reserat  crebris  junctam  compagibus  arcam 

Exultansque  omnes  conspicit  intus  opes. 
Sed  tandem  furiis  ultricibus  actus  ob  artes 

Queis  sua  res  tenuis  creverat  in  cumulum. 
Contortis  manibus  nunc  stat,  nunc  pectora  pulsans 

Aurum  execratur,  perniciernque  vocat  \ 
O  mihi,  ait,  misero  mens  quam  tranquilla  fuisset, 

Hoc  celasset  adhuc  si  modo  terra  malum  ! 
Nunc  autem  virtus  ipsa  est  venalis  ;  et  aurum 

Quid  contra  vitii  tormina  saeva  valet  ? 
O  inimicum  aurum  I     O  hoinini  infestissima  pestis  ; 


FROM  THE  FABLES  OF  GA  Y.  649 

Cui  datur  illeeebras  vincere  posse  tuas  ? 
Auruin  homines  suasit  contemnere  quicquid  honestum  est, 

Et  praeter  noinen  nil  retinere  boni. 
Auruin  cuncta  niali  per  terras  seinina  sparsit ; 

Aurum  nocturnis  furibus  arma  dedit. 
Bella  docet  fortes,  timidosque  ad  pessima  ducit, 

Fcedifragas  artes,  multiplicesque  dolos, 
Nee  vitii  quicquam  est,  quod  non  inveneris  ortum 

Ex  malesuada  aim  sacrilegaque  fame. 
Dixit,  etingemuit ;  Plutusque  suum  sibi  numen 

Ante  oculos,  ira  fervidus,  ipse  stetit. 
Arcam  clausit  avaras,  et  ora  horrentia  rugis 

Ostendens  ;  tremulum  sic  Detis  increpuit. 
Questibus  his  ram-is  mihi  cur,  stulte,  obstrepis  aures  ? 

Ista  tui  similis  tristia  quisque  canit. 
Commaculavi  egone  human um  genus,  improbe  ?  Culpa, 

Dum  rapis,  et  captas  omnia,  culpa  tua  est. 
Mene  execrandum  censes,  quia  tain  pretiosa 

Criminibus  fiunt  perni<-i«>sa  tui- 
Virtutis  specie,  pulchro  ceu  ])alli<>  am  ictus 

Quisque  cat  us  nebulo  sonlida  facta  tegit. 
Atque  suis  immihus  rnmmissa  p<»t«'ntia,  durum 

Et  dirum  subito  vegit  ad  imperiuin. 
Hinc,  nimium  dum  latro  aiirum  dctrudit  in  arcain, 

Idem  aurum  latet  in  pectore  pestis  edax  ; 
Nutrit  avaritiam  et  fast u in,  suspendere  adunco 

Suadet  naso  inopes,  et  vitium  onme  docet. 
Auri  at  larga  probo  si  copia  contigit,  instar 

Roris  dilapsi  ex  aethere  cuncta  beat : 
Turn,  quasi  numen  inesset,  alit,  fovet,  educat  orbos, 

Et  viduas  lacrymis  ora  rigare  vetat. 
Quo  sua  crimina  jure  auro  derivet  avarua* 

Auruin  animae  pretium  qui  cupit  atque  capit? 
Lege  pari  gladium  iricuset  sicarius  atrox 

Caeso  homine,  et  ferrum  judicet  esse  re  urn. 


PAPILIO  ET  LIMAX.* 

Qui  subito  ex  irnis,  rerum  in  fastigia  surgit 

Nativas  sordes,  quicquid  agitur,  olet. 

*  *  *  #  * 

*  The  two  first  lines  only  of  the  "  Butterfly  and  Snail." 


T 


RFSFRV 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD 


JUN    1  1962 


16Feb'63jC 


IN  STACKS 


FEB    I 


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REC'D 


N}\1 


LD  21A-50m-12,'60 
(B6221slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


VB  14003 


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.     t.          •  »     9 


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